


The Polyhex Candidate

by Gaslight Dreamer (wyntirrose)



Series: Thin Line Between [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Gen, Implied Bondage, Implied or Off-stage Rape/Non-con, M/M, Multi, Reprogramming, Spark Sex, Tactile, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-02
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-17 14:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 19
Words: 55,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntirrose/pseuds/Gaslight%20Dreamer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year ago Jazz was captured by the Decepticons and reprogrammed into a walking time-bomb. Now that he has returned to the Autobots his new programming has kicked in and he has left chaos in his wake. It's up to Smokescreen and Mirage to find Jazz and bring him back to their side and back to sanity before he is completely lost. Meanwhile Prowl and Ultra Magnus try to keep Iacon from destroying itself as panic grips the populace, and as Prowl fights for his sanity after a year's separation from his bonded and the sure knowledge that Jazz may not survive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes on terminology:  
> Second = Klik (8.3 seconds)  
> Minute = Breem (83 seconds)  
> Hour = Groon (83 minutes)  
> Day = Orn (33 Hours)  
> Week = Cycle (10 days)  
> Month = Quartrex (4 weeks)  
> Year = Solar (13 months – 432 days)  
> Century = Vorn (83 years)

_“Relax,” said the night man, “we are programmed to receive. You can check out any time you like, but you can never leave.”_ – Hotel California, The Eagles

\---

“Slag! We've got another leak! Hand me that clamp!”

“Forget the clamps, just close them off and we'll fix them later!”

“Yeah, but-”

“No buts! Just do it! His spark will gutter if he loses any more fuel!”

“Frag! Where's it all coming from?!”

“Primus damn it! They've got his fuel and coolant lines switched! What the frag were they doing?!”

“The scouts … they found his legs, sir...”

“What is that? Is that _glue_?! Get me the solvent! _NOW_!”

Jazz floated in and out of consciousness as the medics worked on him. He was only half aware of them and what they were doing, but he was fully aware of the pain. An ache that managed to be both sharp and dull, far away and all encompassing. A part of him knew that the medics were going to help him, were going to take the pain away. But at the same time, he remembered that the Decepticons had promised the same. And they had, only to replace it with stark terror as he watched his body commit atrocity after atrocity, completely incapable to regaining control. Then a horrible thought came into his processor. This wouldn't be the first time he'd been “saved” by his fellow Autobots. This wouldn't be the first time the medics had worked feverishly on his broken body. But all those other times had been cruel psychological games designed to break his will and tear down his defences. Was he really in the brightly lit med bay of Iacon surrounded by friends and colleagues? Or was this still that cold, dark cell deep in the bowels of Darkmount? The frantic words of the Autobot medics morphed in his audios until all he could hear was insane laughter and that horrible, never ending clicking. With weak hands he reached up and batted at the nearest medic, trying to get him to go away.

“Slag it! He's online! Ratchet! What do we do?”

“Get out of the way and let me-”

Jazz continued to struggle feebly as he felt strong, gentle fingers move across his body. Then the voices and the noise and the sensations were suddenly cut off as he felt a sharp pinch and was forced into recharge.

\---

Jazz came back online slowly, clawing his way back up from what felt like the bottom of a deep dark pit. The pain from before was now just a dull remembered ache, and for the first time in as long as he could remember, he felt whole. At least physically. Mentally was something else entirely.

“Jazz? You online?” The voice was soft, young, filled with concern. “Come on Jazz, online your optics. Please?”

After a moment of fishing though his fogged processor, Jazz pulled up a name to match the voice. Bumblebee. The small yellow minibot had just been made a full time member of Special Ops and had taken Smokescreen's place in the trine.

“... m'okay, Bee ...” Jazz's voice was hoarse and low, and his vocalizer fizzed and popped slightly as he spoke.

“Shh, Jazz. I'll go get a medic. Just don't talk, okay?” Bumblebee said, laying a hand on Jazz's arm and squeezing gently.

It was a simple movement intended to calm and reassure. But at the pressure something snapped in Jazz. This wasn't the first time the minibot had reassured him. It wasn't the first time he'd gone to fetch a medic. And those other times had ended in pain and horror.

“No ...,” Jazz whispered. “No, not again ...”

He pulled away sharply and scrabbled away from the yellow mech, but the berth ended before his exit, and he collapsed onto the floor in a heap. Sensors and cables snapped out of his body as he fell, spraying the floor and berth with energon and other fluids and setting the monitoring equipment to screaming out in distress, warning that the patient had guttered. Instantly Jazz lashed out at the machinery, silencing it with one well-placed strike.

“Jazz! Come on, Jazz, it's me! It's Bumblebee! We're not going to hurt you. You're safe now!” Bumblebee pleaded, coming around the berth, careful not to slip on the spilled fluids. He had his hands up and out in a submissive posture, entreating the saboteur to relax.

But Jazz would have none of it. It was too much! He'd been through this too many times and he wasn't going to fall for it again. With a sudden surge, he launched himself at the minibot and before Bumblebee could react, Jazz had rolled once and sent the tiny spy flying. Bumblebee hit the wall hard, but he had his feet under him in an instant and was crouching in defence.

“Jazz, I'm Bumblebee, remember? I'm your friend. I want to help you.” Bumblebee modulated his voice carefully so that he sounded innocent and harmless.

Jazz looked at him, optics wild with anger and fear, but for a moment it was as if Bumblebee was getting through to him. Silence descended over the med bay as the two Special Ops officers stared at each other in a stand-off of wills. Then the door to the back of the bay opened and the moment was lost.

“Bumblebee, what’s going-”

The medic’s question was cut off before it was out completely. Jazz spun and crouched low, his body stilling completely.

“Hoist, back up slowly and don’t do anything sudden,” Bumblebee intoned carefully, never taking his optics off Jazz. “Jazz, look at me. Come on mech, you’re in Iacon. You’re among friends here, remember?”

He took a step forward reaching out one slow hand toward the saboteur in an attempt to get his attention away from the medic.

Jazz’s head turned so fast in Bumblebee’s direction that the small spy had to fight the urge to step back.

“You’re safe, Jazz. I promise you.”

Jazz wasn't hearing his comrade, however. His optics were dark and wild and he didn't see the bright med bay, didn't hear Bumblebee or the medic. In his mind he was somewhere far darker and his audios were filled with insane, chittering laughter.

“Jazz, come on, you're safe here,” Bumblebee repeated in a slow, calming mantra. He recognized the look and knew that Jazz was at his most dangerous right now. A mech who had lost control like this was dangerous; one as skilled as Jazz was deadly.

He moved toward the door slowly, blocking Jazz's exit into the base proper. There was no telling what kind of damage he would do in this state, but Bumblebee knew exactly how security would respond, and it would be a slaughter.

“Jazz, I swear to you, you're safe,” he said calmly. “Ratchet and his staff’ve been working on you non-stop since we found you.”

“That’s right,” Hoist said, taking a step forward.

Bumblebee couldn’t help but notice that he was carefully keeping his left hand hidden. And if Bee had noticed then there was no way that Jazz hadn’t. Before the little spy could warn Hoist, Jazz struck. With almost unimaginable speed he grabbed the medic and sent him flying into a far table. Hoist struck with enough force to send pieces of his armour flying off in all directions. With a groan the medic collapsed, his optics flickering before going dim. From where he was standing Bumblebee could hear Hoist’s engines still working, but he wouldn’t be online much longer if Jazz continued to view him as a threat.

“Jazz, please,” Bumblebee said softly, doing what he could to distract his commander and stop any further attack on the fallen medic.

The saboteur spun, his optics still dark and wild, clearly not seeing the bright medbay. Bublebee stepped forward, hands outstretched at his sides to show he was unarmed. “Jazz, none of us are a threat. The medics will do everything they can to help you. We all will.”

He continued to approach Jazz with a slow, measured step. “We’ll have you right soon, you just need to trust us and let us help you.”

Unfortunately, this was the worst thing the young special ops agent could have said. Every time the Decepticons had allowed him to escape, they used that same line on him, convincing him that he was back at base and among friends. They’d always asked for his trust, and when he gave in, that was when the torture really started.

Without a sound Jazz struck. Moving fast as lightning, he grabbed Bumblebee’s arm and pulling him in close against him. The little spy grabbed hold of Jazz’s arm, trying to pull away as his fuel lines were compressed in a stranglehold.

“Jazz!” Bumblebee whispered, panic in his voice. “Please! We’re not a threat!”

The pleading words never penetrated the haze of anger and hate that flowed through his entire being. Never letting go of his victim, Jazz reached behind him and grabbed the first tool his hand landed on. With a quick upward thrust he impaled the scalpel into Bumblebee’s chest until he felt it connect with the fuel pump. A vicious twist of the blade cut off his victim mid-scream, and Jazz dropped him unceremoniously to the floor before making his way out of the medbay at a run.

He knew this session. He’d been through it more times than he could count and he knew exactly what he needed to do. On silent feet he moved through the base, whispering thanks to the maker that it was between shifts and the side halls were empty. He knew the base like the back of his hand, but even his intimate knowledge of every hallway, air duct, and crawlspace wouldn’t do any good if he was spotted. That had already happened once and it was an experience he would never go through again.

Admittedly, he could kill anyone who got in his way easily enough, but there was no point in alerting his quarry. He had already made a mistake by not hiding the ones in the med bay. The bodies would be found soon enough and then the warnings would sound.

He slipped into an empty office and logged into the system as Bumblebee.

“ _Access denied. Invalid password_ ,” Teletraan Alpha intoned in the soft, neutral tone it always used.

A soft growl escaped Jazz’s throat as he started to hack the system, accessing a backdoor that he wasn’t supposed to know about. Moments later he was in the system and identifying the location of the rest of his targets. He’d be able to hit them one right after the other.

The first though had to be the most important. Just in case.

Logging out of the system, he left the office and headed to the command centre.


	2. Chapter 2

Ratchet entered the command centre and leaned heavily against a console, obviously exhausted.

“How is he?” Prime asked, looking up from the central data table where he was consulting with Ironhide.

“He got through the surgery. He’s stable, but the next several hours will be crucial,” Ratchet said with a sigh.

Prime nodded and came up to the new CMO, placing his hand on Ratchet’s shoulder and squeezing gently. “You and your team have done all they can. Jazz is in the best possible hands.”

He motioned the exhausted surgeon to a chair and leaned back against the data table. “So. What happened?”

Ratchet scrubbed his faceplates wearily as he sat down and sighed heavily at the question.

“He was tortured Prime. I don’t know for how long, but I’m sure that the damage we fixed wasn’t all he’s received. What we repaired should have killed him. Quickly. There’s no way he would have survived all that time with his fuel and cooling lines switched and I can’t imagine that they left him in peak working order for the year that he was in their hands.”

“That being the case,” Prowl began as he entered the room, “how is it that he survived long enough to get back to us?” The Second-in-Command consulted a data pad before looking back at Ratchet. “According to your own notes his lines were switched, his fuel pump was cracked, both legs were missing, his spark casing was dam-”

“Yes! I know what my report says, Prowl!” Ratchet interrupted irritably. “And I have no clue how he got back to us! The Cons must have an outpost close by. It’s the only explanation.”

“Hardly the on-”

“ ** _And_** ,” Ratchet snapped before Prowl could continue, “you make it sound like he ran to us without legs. You can blame the head of security for that one! He frelling **_OPENED FIRE_** on Jazz!”

“First of all, Red Alert’s team opened fire on the Decepticons chasing Jazz. His being hit was an error that Red Alert is presently dealing with. Second of all, and as I was saying, a Decepticon outpost in Iacon is hardly the only possibility in this situation. We cannot come to any form of conclusion without all of the pertinent data. All you have at your disposal is circumstantial evidence and conjecture.”

Ratchet was out of the chair and closing in on Prowl in an instant, his body shaking with rage and exhaustion, his voice dangerous and low.

“Circums- You know what? Frag off, Prowl! It’s all so frelling clinical even when we’re dealing with your bondmate!”

Optimus smoothly interposed himself between his Second-in-Command and his Chief Medical Officer.

“All right, that’s enough,” he said, his tone managing to be both calm and commanding. “All we need right now are the facts. We can come to conclusions later once we know what we’re dealing with and once we’re sure of Jazz’s condition.”

“That’s going to take some time, Prime,” Ratchet replied, pointedly ignoring Prowl. “Even if I’m wrong and he hasn’t been tortured, he’s been a captive for a long time. Primus knows what they did to him. He’s going to need time with the PsyOps team. Neuron’s people will have the final word on when – and I hate to say it, _if_ – he’s ready for duty.”

“He ain’t gonna like that,” Ironhide murmured from his place by the data table. “An’ it’s gonna be an even harder sell fer ‘Raj an’ Bee.”

“They don’t need to like it,” Ratchet grumbled. “It’s how it has to be. I can sign off on him physically as soon as we’re sure, but mentally … that’s completely out of my range. Plus, Neuron won’t sign off without a full psych consult. You know how she can be when it comes to the regs.”

“Prime, I’m tellin’ ya, them Special Ops boys don’t do shrinks. They never have and they never will.”

“Regardless, Ironhide, he will not be given the option. The regulations are quite clear, as Ratchet stated,” Prowl said, nodding toward the medic and ignoring the irritate glare he got in return.

“All right. Again, enough.” Prime’s voice was quiet as he motioned for silence. “No arguing over this. You’ve all provided your opinion and I’ll take it all under advisement when I speak with Neuron later today. In the meantime, we can’t dismiss the possibility that the Decepticons either have an outpost right under our noses or that they deposited Jazz on our doorstep for a purpose.”

“Prime there is only a thirteen point four per cent chance that-”

Optimus interrupted Prowl with a raised hand and a look.

“Regardless of how unlikely I want you to work with Red Alert to increase both our security and our patrols. Even a thirteen percent chance is too high for my liking. Ratchet, as for you, I would appreciate it if you would keep me in the loop on Jazz’s condition. Is there any way to tell if his systems have been compromised in any way?”

Ratchet nodded. “Once he’s stable there are some tests I can run. I’ve disabled his suicide protocols and they were intact at the time he came in, so I would think that he hasn’t been compromised. If he thought he was at risk of letting information fall into Decepticon hands he would have reformatted his memory core. There’s no indication of that or that the protocol was tampered with.”

Prime nodded, his optics looking pale at the thought of the suicide protocol that all three Special Ops agents had implanted in their systems.

“That’s good news at least. All right, Ironhide, I need you to-”

They were interrupted as Ratchet’s comm went off. “Excuse me a moment, Prime,” the CM said quietly as he stepped off to the side of the room to take the call more privately.

“What is it? Something wrong with Jazz?” Ratchet snapped into the comm.

“ _Ratchet! We need you down here immediately,_ ” First Response replied hurriedly. “ _Bumblebee is critically injured and Jazz is--_ ”

Ratchet never saw the saboteur enter the room, but what came next was like a slow motion vid. Jazz strode in brandishing a gun that wasn’t his own. Bringing it up, he fired twice, first at Ironhide then at Prowl. Without even waiting to see if his shots hit true, he aimed at Prime.

“Jazz! What are you-” Optimus brought his hands up to defend against the saboteur, cut off mid-sentence as Jazz fired.

The gun he held should have merely incapacitated at most. It was a heavy stun weapon never designed to kill, but somewhere between acquiring it and entering the command room, Jazz had found time to tinker. The shot hit Prime square in the face sending an energy pulse through armour and electronics before exploding out the back of Optimus’ helm. Energon and scraps of metal flew out in all directions coating the central console with pink and silver gore.

Ironhide jumped on Jazz, grabbing him just as the saboteur was turning his attention toward Prowl.

“Ratchet! Get to Prime!” Ironhide yelled as Jazz struck back, elbowing him in the midsection.

Ironhide grabbed Jazz’s arm and yanked him back, kicking out at the saboteur’s knee as he did.

“Get down!” Ironhide snapped as he slammed Jazz down to the plating.

As fast as he had been before, Jazz was now becoming slow and sluggish. At least for Jazz. He was still putting up a fight and giving almost as good as he was getting against Ironhide. Jazz heaved up against Ironhide’s bulk aiming to throw the larger mech off his back.

The red mech grunted and slammed his arm against the saboteur’s neck to force him down and hold him in place.

“Stop fightin’ me, Jazz! I don’t want to hurt you!” he yelled as he grappled with one of Jazz’s arms, pinning his legs with his own.

As they grappled Ratchet ran to Optimus.

“Oh Primus! Hold on, Prime. Just hold on!” he growled as he tried desperately to save Prime’s life. As he worked he opened an ultra-secure line to the medbay. “First Response! Get a crew up here now! And get the emergency bay prepped!”

“ _Sir! Are you okay? What’s your status up there?_ ” his second asked, sharply controlled panic in his voice.

“I’m. Fine,” Ratchet bit back. “Get up here with a team. I have a medical emergency!”

“ _Sir, we don’t have Bumblebee stabilized yet,_ ” Ratchet’s second replied tightly. “ _He’s going to gutter out if we-_ ”

“Leave the junior medics with him and get your aft up here! Prime’s down! I need life support up here **_NOW_**.”

Ironhide finally managed to subdue Jazz and looked over at the medic and his commander as an alarm began to blare across the base.

“Tell me he’s gonna be okay, Ratch,” Ironhide said tightly.

“Little busy, Hide,” Ratchet dismissed sharply.

Ironhide’s optics narrowed as he cuffed Jazz’s hands behind his back.

“Stay put, kid. Don’t make me tie you up more than I have.” He patted Jazz’s back gently before turning his attention to Prowl.

The tactician had been clipped in the first volley and went down as his left door wing was blown off. As Ironhide reached him, Prowl came online slowly.

“It’s okay, kid. Stay put an’ Ratchet’ll get to you as soon as he can,” the big red mech assured.

“Where’s Jazz?” Prowl asked as he tried to sit up.

“It’s okay, Prowl. We’ve got him and he’s safe.” Ironhide motioned toward where he’d left Jazz and cursed viciously.

All that was left of the saboteur was a pair of cuffs in the middle of the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

First Response entered the back door of the med bay and uploaded the patient files before he started walking the berths in the low-risk section of the bay. Hoist would still be in the ICU and could wait a few more minutes while the patients here were checked over. Thankfully there were few patients in in medical in general. The last several battles had seen only minor injuries with patients being repaired and released almost immediately. A few rowdy games and an overcharged brawl accounted for the remaining handful of patients in the ward.

Once he completed his tour of the bay he moved on to the new secure ICU where Jazz was.

“Odd,” First Response murmured to himself as he saw the lights were on. “I thought I told Hoist to keep these on the low setting …”

He shrugged slightly and quietly entered the room to check on Jazz and put the lights back to the proper setting.

He hadn’t taken more than five steps into the room when his feet slid out from under him. The air rushed out of his vents as he hit the plating hard. His optics cycled sluggishly and he slowly got his bearings.

“… the frag?” he gasped out as sat up slowly.

It was then that he noticed the pool of energon and oil he had stepped in. Shock rocked him back and it was all he could do to keep his senses about him to track the source of the fluids.

A clicking, rasping, noise drew his attention to the other side of the empty berth. Hoist hovered over Bumblebee’s prone form, hands shaking and body swaying slightly as he tried desperately to help the small spy while clearly fighting off injuries of his own.

“Hoist! Bee!” he cried sliding up next to two, scanner instantly up and taking in the damage. “What the frag happened?!”

“Jazz happened,” Hoist grit out in a shuddering voice. “He freaked and attacked. When I came to he was gone and Bee was down.”

“Gasket! Clutch! Emergency in the secure ICU!” he bellowed over the medical comm lines.

“You okay to work, Hoist? I need you with me now and not about to fall apart,” First Response said sharply.

“I’ll be fine,” Hoist replied, visibly steeling himself as he moved to grab needed tools.

First Response barely acknowledged the reply as he began to work on Bumblebee, rapidly lifting off his chest plating to get at the damage. “I’m sorry, this is going to hurt, but I need to stabilize you. I promise we’ll put you under as soon as possible.”

Bumblebee nodded weakly, reaching up to take the medic’s hand.

“Jazzsss…,” he whispered brokenly through his obviously damaged vocalizer.

“Quiet, Bee. We’ll get to Jazz. Right now we need to focus on you,” First Response answered with a calm he didn’t feel. It was one thing to see this kind of damage coming in from a battle, but to have it happen in their own medbay, to have one of their own attack a fellow Autobot so viciously was something else entirely.

He turned his head slightly as he heard the other medics enter. “Be careful of the fuel. And get over here! We need to get him on a table and we need to get Ratchet down here. Now.”

As soon as they had the small mech on a table, and First Response was sure that the others had him well in hand, he diverted part of his attention to his comm, calling up Ratchet on a secure line.

“Ratchet, come in,” he said as calmly as possible. The CMO was in a meeting and, as urgent as this was, he didn’t want to start a potential panic among whoever Ratchet was with.

After a moment the Chief’s voice snapped over the line. “ _What is it? Something wrong with Jazz?_ ”

“Ratchet! We have an emergency down here. Bumblebee has been injured, sir. We need you down here immediately!” First Response replied hurriedly, not attempting to hide the panic in his voice. “Jazz is-” Suddenly there was the sound of an explosion on the line and the signal went dead. “Ratchet? **RATCHET**?!”

First Response ran to the console to bring up a reading on Ratchet and his location. Something major had just gone down and he needed to know what. Just as the information scrolled onto the monitor a shrill alarm started to ring through the med bay.

“FR! We’re losing him!” Gasket yelled from where he and the other medics were working on Bumblebee.”

“Frag it!” First Response spat, moving back to the table, careful not to slip in the spilled fuel again. “Come on, Bee! You’re not checking out that easily! Hand me the spark jumpers!”

The four medics worked feverishly on Bumblebee, doing everything they could to save his life.

“Close off that leak there. And get the external fuel pump. We need to reroute his systems,” the Second Medical Officer ordered, surprised at how calm his voice was.

Clutch nodded and rushed off to get the required equipment.

“Stay with us, Bee. We’ll set you right, just stay with us,” First Response said quietly as he brushed a gentle hand over Bumblebee’s helm.

“ _First Response! Get a crew up here now! And get the emergency bay prepped!_ ” Ratchet snapped over the comm line.

“Sir! Are you okay? What’s your status up there?” his second asked, all his earlier calm morphing into sharply controlled concern.

“ _I’m. Fine_ ,” Ratchet bit back. “ _Get up here with a team. I have a medical emergency!_ ”

“Sir, we don’t have Bumblebee stabilized yet,” First Response replied tightly. “He’s going to gutter out if we-”

“ _Leave the junior medics with him and get your aft up here! Prime’s down! I need life support up here **NOW**._ ”

First response nodded and looked to Gasket. “You heard him. You and Hoist take care of Bee. Clutch you’re with me. Let’s go.”

\---

Jazz moved rapidly through the halls of the Iacon base, ignoring the alarm that blared through the systems. He’d completed a portion of his mission. Now he needed to get out and regroup and there was no one who was going to stop him.

The halls were thankfully clear of personnel save for the security forces Red Alert and Ironhide were hurling at him like so much cannon fodder. Not that he was having any difficulty taking any of them down. But every time he had to stop to disable or decommission an obstacle he lost valuable moments he needed to get out of the base.

A large blue mech stepped in his path, blocking most of the hallway.

“Stop Jazz. I don’t wanna hurt you,” he rumbled.

Somewhere in his processor, Jazz knew his opponent. He never bothered to search for the mech’s name as he struck, transforming and slamming into the giant’s torso. Another transformation and he had the security officer’s neck in his hands, casually ripping out the main power relay leading to the central processor.

Leaving the Autobot behind him like so much scrap, Jazz bolted toward the rapidly closing main doors, transforming mid step, and spinning out between the plates an instant before they slammed shut. Without a word he launched himself off the main tower of the base, and glided down toward the city proper, certain that the Autobots would not shoot him. After all, if they wanted him dead, they never would have gone through the trouble of repairing him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize in advance for Percy's technobabble. Sadly I know very little about computers save that they work off of magic steam and don't like water, so I went with words that sounded like they might be right.

Perceptor entered the large boardroom, flinching slightly as the noise, previously dampened by the door, hit him full force. Jazz’s attack on them was only hours before, but already the recriminations were flying among the command staff.

Prowl sat stiffly at the head of the table, obviously fighting to keep his balance with one doorwing removed.

“You need to be in medical!” Ratchet snapped, obviously continuing a long-running argument.

“No,” Prowl replied calmly, “I _need_ to be here. You said yourself, my injuries are not urgent. I will make my way to medical as soon as I have everything else in hand.”

“Oh really? How?” Ratchet sneered. “You can barely sit up straight in your own chair let along walk down a hallway! I swear I would happily _reformat_ the glitch who thought it was a good idea to put doorwings on Praxians!”

“All of this is drawing us away from the issue at hand.” Prowl paused to cycle his vents slowly. “Specifically Jazz and what needs to be done.”

“Yes, it is,” Ultra Magnus said, quietly authoritative, from the other side of the table. He had come in from the Front immediately upon hearing what happened and was still covered in the grime and filth of the battlefield. “What we need to focus on is Prime, and picking up the pieces here. Jazz is gone, and while, yes, we need to go after him, he’ll keep for a while longer.”

Ratchet nodded, looking grim. “Yes. Prime. And Bumblebee. Not to mention the twelve mechs Jazz disabled on his way out, four of whom didn’t survive long enough to make it to my medbay. Three more may not survive the night …”

Ratchet closed one hand into a tight fist on the table as he tapped a data pad with the other. “Prime’s physical damage is repairable, but when we get him back online he’ll be missing memories, since the idiot completely failed to run his scheduled backups!” The CMO’s tone was harsh, but they all knew he was angrier at himself for not keeping on Prime about it, than he was mad at Optimus.

“How much memory loss are we looking at? And is there anything salvageable from his core?” Prowl asked calmly. He may as well have been asking about the weather for all the emotion and concern he showed.

“The last backup I have is from ten quartex ago. So almost a full solar worth of memories gone. And, no, I can’t salvage anything from his systems, Prowl! I have to rebuild his entire Primus damned head! There is _nothing_ to salvage!”

Perceptor stepped in and placed a calming hand on Ratchet’s shoulder just as the CMO started to stand angrily.

“Calm down, my friend. Prowl is simply asking for the facts. There is no need to become incensed,” he said quietly.

Prowl, ignoring the entire outburst, simply nodded. “And what of Bumblebee?”

Perceptor took a seat beside Ratchet and responded after a cursory glance at the data pad. “Bumblebee is better off. He will require significant repairs to both his fuel pump and his vocalizer, but the medical team got to him in time. In a few days we should be able to release him for light duty.”

Again, Prowl did nothing more than nod, again cycling his vents in a steadying breath. “I’m sure that everyone is in good hands. Now, on to the matter of Jazz. What can you tell us, Perceptor? We need to know why he acted as he did before we can decide what needs to be done.”

“He acted that way because he’s obviously glitched, Prowl,” Magnus butted in. “You’re making it sound as if you think he’s gone rogue. Or worse, defected!”

“I neither implied nor intimated anything of the sort, Ultra Magnus. I simply asked a question and stated a need for information. Nothing more sinister than that.”

“Yeah, right,” Magnus muttered sotto voce.

“Uhm, yes, well …” Perceptor murmured, obviously disconcerted by the direction the discussion was headed. He pulled out a second data pad, scanned it and stood to give his presentation. Around the room, soft, barely controlled groans could be heard. Perceptor ignored them all.

“Right. I have made a cursory examination of the scans Ratchet took during surgery. Unfortunately with the limited timeframe and the urgency of the matter I have had to limit my observations, and therefore, cannot guarantee the accuracy of the following comments. I believe that in the time that Jazz has been captive he has been subjected to a series of psychological and surgical augmentations to his central cortex leading to certain sectors of binary storage to become both volatile and dynamic, while causing his personality core to be partially overwritten. He is still, in core essence, Jazz, but at this time there seems to be a sequence-causality in his throughput where there was none before and a number of segmentations have been created in the randomization of his long- and short-term memory packets. At this point I cannot be sure if the changes to both his aperture and his dynamic memory have been fully caused by external tampering or if we are looking at the work of a virus or worm in his systems. There was no direct indication of either, but we cannot dismiss the possibility outright. Not when Jazz acted so completely out of character.”

Magnus rubbed his optics wearily. “Perceptor, I know you think that makes sense, but we need you to dumb it down a little for the rest of us.”

The scientist glared at the Field Commander and a small sigh escaped his lips before he could stop it. “I know you think I'm being needlessly sesquipedalian but-” He paused at the blank looks he received from everyone save for Prowl and Ratchet. When he next spoke, his voice was tight with irritation. “I know you think I'm using big words for the sake of it, but I assure you, I am not. I cannot _dumb this down_ any more than I already have! The processor is an intricate thing and I am not a neurologist!”

It was Ratchet’s turn to calm the scientist, placing a hand on Perceptor’s arm.

“Prowl,” Ratchet said in a controlled voice, “the long and the short of it is, we don’t know what’s wrong with Jazz. We can fix the physical damage to both his body and his memory banks, but there is underlying psychological damage that neither of us are qualified to repair. When we get Jazz back he’s going to need a lot of help and it’ll have to be from someone in psychological operations.”

Prowl nodded sombrely, one hand twitching almost imperceptibly as he cleared his vents slowly. “Thank you, Perceptor. Ratchet. Red Alert, what do you have to report?”

The Security Director glared at Prowl. “What do I have to report? What do I have to report?! I have to report that because you completely failed to take my suggestions seriously _TWELVE_ of my security troops are either deactivated or injured!”

“Your suggestions were taken under advisement and were deemed unnecessary at the time,” Prowl replied calmly.

“Unnecessary? You and Prime shot me down and now look where we are!”

“Yer suggestion was that we lock ‘m up, Red!” Ironhide said, speaking for the first time in the meeting. “No matter what th’ ‘Cons did to him, he’s still an Autobot! We don’t lock up our own on trumped up charges!”

“Besides, he needed immediate medical care,” Ratchet growled at the Security Director. “I can’t run a surgery from inside a cell!”

“And you!” Red Alert spat, levelling a finger at Ratchet. “You wouldn’t let me put troops on him in med bay!”

“No!” Ironhide shot back. “ _I_ wouldn’t let ya put troops in there. They’re not just yer mechs, Red! In case you’ve forgotten, I’m in charge of physical security, an’ I made an executive decision! Jazz ain’t no criminal regardless of what the Cons made ‘im do!”

Red Alert stood up forcefully and was about to counter the argument when Prowl’s voice rose over the argument.

“That is enough, gentlemechs. I have your reports and your suggestions. Arguing and assigning blame will not accomplish anything. Now, unless there is anything else constructive to be added, you are all dismissed.”

The black and white mech looked around the table at the command staff. When there was no response, he nodded and motioned for the door. As he moved to stand a hand came down on his shoulder.

“You’re coming right to medical, Prowl,” Ratchet ordered.

“I will as soon as I have spoken with Neuron,” came the calm reply.

Ratchet’s lips compressed into a thin line. He was fully prepared to argue the point with Prowl, but realize that it was an argument he would lose. And his time would be better served getting back to medical and his willing patients.

“Fine. You have half an hour before I come and haul you down bodily. And don’t come crying to me when you fall over onto your aft and can’t get back up.”

Still muttering half under his breath about idiot Praxians and cold-sparked tacticians, Ratchet stomped out of the boardroom, leaving Prowl alone. When the door shut, Prowl ran his hand over his chest above his spark chamber and allowed a shaky breath to cycle through his vents.

\---

Prowl sat in the proffered chair gratefully and levelled a serious gaze at Neuron, head Psychological Operations.

“I have spoken with the rest of the senior staff and taken their suggestions under advisement. You will note that Ratchet is advising psychological counselling for Jazz once he is returned.”

“Yes, I also note that he suggests it for you as well,” Neuron replied, barely glancing at the data pad on her desk. “Of course, it’s not up to the surgeon to tell me how to do my job. After all, I don’t advise him on his butcheries, now do I?”

“I am not at issue here,” Prowl replied tightly. It was no secret that he thought little of Psychological Operations in general, and thought less of Neuron’s outspoken dislike of the surgical staff. “What is at issue is Jazz’s present mental state and how we can best go about getting him back. I agree with Ratchet’s suggestion and will require that a psychologist go with the team assigned to this project.”

Neuron’s optic band brightened slightly as she let out a soft noise that sounded vaguely like a chuckle. Though he couldn’t see her mouth or optics under her battlemask and visor, Prowl was positive she was smirking cruelly at him and his order.

“Oh you will, will you?” Neuron asked. She turned fully away from her monitor and folder her orange and cream hands on the table. “So let me get this straight. You are planning on sending a team out into Iacon to capture one of our best Special Ops agents? An agent, I might add, who incapacitated twelve trained soldiers and may have killed our _illustrious_ leader.”

Prowl’s optics narrowed at the almost sneering tone and description of Optimus. “I am not planning on doing anything so foolhardy, Neuron. I know full well that there is an eighty-seven point two five per cent chance any security force that goes after Jazz will be killed for their efforts. I also realize that should that same team succeed there is a sixty-four point thirty-six per cent chance that they will kill Jazz in retaliation for his actions.”

“Then what are you suggesting, Prowl?” the head of Psychological Operations asked, her voice careful and prodding.

“My request is in the report.” Prowl’s tone was tightly controlled, but under the cold demeanour was a spark deep exhaustion.

“Yes, I know that. But I want you to tell me yourself. You _need_ to put this request into words so that it comes from you and not the coldly logical part of your psyche,” Neuron said in that insufferably calm and vaguely condescending tone. “Now. What do you want of me?”

Prowl fought back a decidedly illogical shudder as he felt Neuron’s voice slip into his processor and under his plating. It was as if she was peeling back his defenses with her words alone, leaving him bare and vulnerable.

Prowl cleared his vents slowly before he replied. “I require the aid of a psychological operative who has an understanding of specials ops work. That individual will accompany a small team into Iacon to find and return Jazz.” Prowl took a deep, stabilizing breath. “It is my hope that they will be able to return him to us alive. If not, then intact. I want to know what happened to him and how much the Decepticons know.”

Neuron leaned back in her chair, the treads in her arms that hinted at her tank-like alt-mode spun slightly as she thought.

“You need psychological and special operations? Very well. Smokescreen,” she said, and Prowl was sure he could hear the amused smirk in her voice. In this moment she was a hunter playing with her prey and he could see exactly why it was that so many Autobots feared the head of Psychological Operations.

Steeling himself against the emotional reaction, Prowl barely hesitated before responding. “No. Smokescreen is not to be trusted. I made my concerns clear at the time and was overridden. I will not allow that _mech_ to be involved in this.”

Neuron leaned forward again, steepling her fingers against her battlemask. “Has it occurred to you, Prowl, that you might be too close to this case? That your judgment is becoming clouded by the loss of your bondmate and the events of the last few days?”

“I am perfectly capable of remaining impartial,” Prowl replied tightly, his vents cycling deeper than was normal.

“And yet you aren’t. You asked me who I have who can do the job, and I told you.” Neuron began to tick off points on her fingers. “One: Smokescreen has experience with Special Operations. Two: He shows an uncanny ability to think outside the proverbial box when it comes to psychoanalysis. Three: He knows how Jazz thinks. Four: He-”

“And he has ties to the Decepticons and is a con artist and criminal,” Prowl interrupted, more than a touch of irritation creeping into his tone. Neuron was getting into his core and forcing up emotions he didn’t want to deal with.

“ _Former_ criminal. As are far too many other mechs in this so-called army. As I recall, even your own bond-mate’s history isn’t entirely pristine.” There was no attempt to hide the smirk in her voice this time and Prowl felt his anger begin to rise and threaten to escape.

“These other mechs are not at issue here,” Prowl said tightly, his hand coming up to his chest as if of its own free will.

Neuron turned away from Prowl and went back to the report on her monitor. “I have offered you my suggestion, Prowl. None of the rest of my team has the field experience needed to help. You can either take my suggestion or find a different tactic. Good day, sir.”

Prowl sat back in his chair, looking at the femme carefully, gauging her words and intent before nodding curtly.

“I will take your suggestion under advisement.”

When Neuron failed to respond, he stood and left the room, walking with the ginger steps of a mech desperately trying to keep his balance.

\---

“You should really be in medical, Prowl,” Smokescreen said as he took in the tactician, optics lingering on the missing door, his own twitching slightly as if in sympathy.

“I have been told that by Ratchet already, thank you, Smokescreen,” Prowl replied stiffly. “Now if both of you would take a seat.”

The 2IC motioned Smokescreen and Mirage to the guest chairs of his office. As soon as they sat, he folded his hands on the desk.

“I asked you both here to discuss the matter of Jazz.”

Smokescreen arched his chevron and Mirage’s optics narrowed slightly at the calmly worded statement.

“The matter of Jazz?” Mirage prompted carefully. “You mean the matter of you sending us to go hunt him down?”

It was Prowl’s turn to arch a chevron. “Ah, yes,” he said slowly. “I need a small team to deal with this. You both know Jazz, and I trust that you will do what needs to be done as required.”

“What needs to be done?” Smokescreen asked. “I can’t say I like the sound of that, Boss.”

“You don’t need to like it,” Prowl said, his vents hitching almost imperceptibly. “The unfortunate fact of the matter is that we cannot allow Jazz to fall back into Decepticon hands and we cannot allow him to go on a rampage in Iacon. Or worse, come back here and finish the job he started.”

“So. Bring him back or terminate him,” Mirage clarified. His body was radiating his distaste for the situation, but his voice gave nothing away.

“That isn’t an option, mech! He’s Jazz! And more important, he’s your mate for frag’s sake!” Smokescreen exclaimed, doors pinning back as he leaned forward in the chair.

Prowl’s optics dimmed slightly as he took a deep breath. “Ideally, I want him back safely. But we don’t know if he can be saved and right now he’s a risk to all of us. My feelings and my relationship with him have no bearing on the situation.”

“Well they should!” Smokescreen was out of the chair in a shot and slammed his hands down on the desk in front of Prowl. “This is monstrous and you know it! He’s your _bond mate_!”

Prowl’s optics never left Smokescreen’s “He’d do the same if it was me.”

“I wouldn’t count on that,” Mirage said darkly.


	5. Chapter 5

Jazz sat in the corner of a rundown apartment in Iacon, hugging his knees to his chest. His mission was almost complete. The Autobot Prime and his second were both dead and he had taken out a third of the Special Operations team. He was almost done and then he could rest.

All that was left was to wait for Ultra Magnus and Mirage to make a mistake. The first would be easy enough; Magnus would be forced to come out and reassure the populace of Iacon as soon as word got out that Optimus Prime was dead. Mirage would be more difficult, but not impossible. It would only be a matter of time before the spy came after him. It was practically a foregone conclusion. The problem would be seeing Mirage before it was too late.

It had been a cycle since he’d completed the first part of the job and if his calculations were correct, it would be another cycle until he had to worry about Mirage. The thought of calculations pulled him out of his musings.

Calculations … his calculations were always right. Wait, that was wrong … He wasn’t the one with calculations. That was someone else. Wasn’t it?

A buzzing formed in his mind as his thoughts strayed from his mission and the more he tried to fight it, the louder the noise became until it became physically painful. With a strangled sob he hit his head back against the wall. The pain brought his fogged mind back where it should be. Back on the mission.

“Everything went perfectly,” he murmured to himself. “Completely perfectly. Now I just need to wait.”

No matter how many times he said it, the niggling doubt at the back of his mind never silenced. This wasn’t what he was supposed to be doing. These Autobots weren’t his enemy. There was something wrong deep inside him but every time he tried to grasp hold of it, every time he tried to understand, the thoughts slipped away until only this truth was left.

Jazz pulled his knees up further against his chest and tried not to focus on the empty ache in his chest where his spark once burned bright, flashing in time with the beat of two souls.

\---

Jazz came online with a start. The room was pitch black and cold; colder than Iacon should be. He cycled his optics in an attempt to see through the darkness but he remained as if blind, able to only see a few feet ahead before the world hazed out into impenetrable night. With slow, deliberate effort he got his feet under him and stood only to be slammed down to the ground as something sharp connected with the top of his helm and sent a jolt of electricity through him.

A high pitched chittering sound came from the darkness. It sounded disconcertingly like laughter.

“Who are you?” Jazz demanded. His voice sounded hoarse in his own audios as if it hadn’t been used in a long time.

“I’m hurt that you should forget so easily,” the voice whispered, sounding as if it was behind him.

Jazz spun and fell back as his knees connected with something. He landed hard on a small metal cot.

“No point in panicking,” the voice said, now coming from somewhere to the side and above. “It’s not as if we’re going to do something unexpected.”

Jazz shivered at the sound of the voice, at the words, and the vague memory of something awful that always accompanied them.

He took a steadying breath and peered out into the darkness. He knew he was in the old safehouse and that meant the berth was against the far wall. As long as he stayed put he’d be safe on two sides.

“You’re sure of that, are you?” the voice said from directly behind him.

Jazz spun and fell off the berth. As soon as he hit the plating he brought his grill beacon to bear, fully intending to blind anyone in the room.

“Oh, we dealt with that a long time ago. Don’t you remember?” the voice asked. “But here, let me offer you some light, if that’s what you’re after.”

The lights came up in the room revealing Bombshell sitting cross-legged on the berth.

Jazz staggered back as if struck.

“You!” he choked out. “You aren’t here!”

“Oh really?” Bombshell asked, a smirk evident in his voice. “Shall we put that to the test, Autobot?”

The Insecticon moved to stand and was suddenly standing in front of Jazz. One clawed hand came up to stroke the saboteur’s face with the perverse gentleness of a lover.

“It certainly seems like I’m here,” Bombshell whispered.

Jazz slapped the hand away and took a step back. “You aren’t real. This is just a hallucination. You can’t teleport and you aren’t that fast; therefore this isn’t real,” he said, seeming to channel a part of himself that belonged to someone else.

“Okay,” Bombshell replied in an indulging tone. “Let’s go with that theory. You’re hallucinating Jazz. I’m not really here at all. You’re still on the floor of this so-called safe-house, deep in recharge dreaming all of this.”

A corner of the room lit up just enough to reveal the recharging form of Jazz. His knees her drawn up to his chest, his body still bearing the scars of surgery and putty colour of unpainted metal.

Jazz looked from his huddled form to Bombshell and back. “It’s all just a dream. None of this is happening,” he murmured, determined to ignore the hallucinatory Insecticon.

“Exactly. Just a dream.” Bombshell nodded a bit too emphatically causing Jazz to narrow his optics behind his optic band.

“What’s your game, bug?” Jazz demanded.

“No game. No game at all. After all, I’m not here, remember? I’m just a hallucination brought about by the guilt of having killed your bondmate and commander. Oh, and the little spy too. Can’t forget him.”

Bombshell moved to sit back on the cot, crossing his legs and casually tapping one clawed finger to his battle mask as if in deep thought.

“Of course, there always is the possibility that all that was a hallucination too,” he said slowly. “Wouldn’t that be nice? Maybe you didn’t kill all those mechs at all. Maybe all of them are safe and sound back in Iacon. Of course, that ache in your spark says otherwise, doesn’t it?”

Jazz shook his head and went back to ignoring the Insecticon. All he needed to do was come back online and end this nightmare. He just needed to wake up …

\---

Jazz came online with a start. Sunlight streamed into the room from a window he didn’t remember leaving open. Outside he could hear the sound of traffic as Iaconians went about their daily business.

With a sigh he stretched and stood up, intending to get the energon converter set up.

“Hungry?” came a voice from a shadowy corner of the room.

“No…” Jazz whispered as Bombshell stepped forward, offering a cube of energon.

“Looks like you weren’t hallucinating after all,” the Insecticon said with mock sadness.

“You _cannot_ be here!” Jazz snapped.

“We’ve been through this already. Either I’m here and everything you are praying didn’t happen did. Or you’re hallucinating.”

The Insecticon stepped closer. “Which would you prefer? That you left your young subordinate in a pool of his own fluids? That you murdered your bondmate in cold fuel? That you blew your vaunted Prime’s head off? That you slaughtered all of those nameless, faceless Autobots?” Each point was punctuated with a step closer until Bombshell was face to face with Jazz.

Jazz struck out with a strangled sob but the Insecticon was too fast, faster than he had ever been before. “You. _Aren’t. **HERE**_!” he yelled.

“Maybe your right,” Bombshell replied casually, leaning against the far wall. “Maybe none of this is real. Maybe this is all a ploy on my part to make you think you’ve lost your mind.”

His voice turned silky as his optics locked onto Jazz’s. “Maybe this is all part of the game. Just another session and we’re really in your cell in Darkmount.”

The lights of the room flickered in a violent strobe, lighting everything but illuminating nothing. The room shifted from the run-down apartment to something far darker and more sinister. As Jazz watched in horror, a table appeared in the centre of the room. It was the same dark metal as the walls and the floor of the cell, and just like the cell walls and floor, it was scored and stained by innumerable interrogation sessions.

“I’m not. I escaped,” Jazz said firmly, but a slight shiver in his voice gave away his doubt.

“Did you really? Are you so sure of that, Autobot? Remember, you were sure all those other times too,” Bombshell said smugly. “Every other time you ‘escaped’ you found yourself right back in this room. With me. Tell me, Jazz, why is this time any different?”

Jazz backed up against the wall and offlined his optics, willing the hallucination to end. Willing himself to wake up.

\---

Jazz came online slowly, his systems booting up in a sluggish crawl. This was different; this feeling like he was trying to swim through a sea of rust and sludge was alien to his recent experiences. And for a brief moment he held on to the hope that he actually was onlining this time; that this wasn’t just another dream.

“Jazz? You need to come back to us, Jazz. Please, love. **I** _need_ you back.” The voice was painfully familiar, but faint as if it was coming at him from Cybertron’s deepest well. His fogged processor couldn’t place it even as his spark reached out to the speaker.

He finally managed to online his optics, cycling them rapidly as he was assaulted with blurs of colour and vague shapes.

“He’s online!”

“…oh thank primus …”

One of the blurs coalesced into a black and white shape and he was finally able to place the voice.

“… prowl …,” he whispered, his voice weak and full of static.

White hands came to rest on his chassis, petting comforting patterns onto his plating.

“Yes. You’re home, Jazz. You’re safe now. You’re back with us.” Prowl’s voice was filled with emotions not normally expressed in public, but the team of medics nearby had no effect on the Second-In-Command.

“How do you feel?”

Jazz looked over to see Ratchet standing at his left and Optimus Prime standing beside him.

He struggled to sit up, finally managing the task with Prowl’s help, leaning on his mate as if to absorb his love and energy. The med bay was exactly as it should be. Bright and clean, filled with medics going about their business and his friends surrounding him. Everything was as it should be. And yet, at the same time it was so very, very wrong. A small, treacherous voice spoke out in the back of his mind reminding him of the many times he had previously been in this same position

“… I don’t know … I feel … wrong somehow ...,” Jazz said, struggling to speak through the static that laced his voice.

“Don’t worry, Jazz. We’ll set you right.” Ratchet turned away to collect his tools, and as he did a figure appeared leaning against the back wall.

Jazz cycled his optics trying to focus on the mech, but only managing to make out a purple and grey blur that seemed horrifyingly familiar.

“No … I can’t be here,” he murmured, pulling away from Prowl as he did.

“What’s the matter, Jazz?” Optimus Prime asked, his voice sounding hollow below the concern.

As Jazz looked around at his friends he felt a panic swell up inside him. This was terribly wrong. There was a dark edge to everything, a patina that covered every surface disguising the truth of his surroundings. He knew this game. He had been forced to play it so many times before that he knew the script from beginning to end. His “friends” would turn on him, leave him with nothing but pain and doubt as the Decepticons mined him for information.

“Jazz?” Prime asked as he stepped closer. “Jazz, what’s wrong … _wrong_?”

For an instant the scene flickered and it was not Prime who stood there, but Shrapnel masquerading as the Autobot supreme commander.

“What’s the matter?” Prowl asked, his words dripping with sweet poison. 

The saboteur turned quickly, almost falling off the berth in the process. Where Prowl had been moments before was now Kickback.

“Come now, lover. Isn’t this what you wanted?” Kickback asked, a leer pulling at his bared lips in a gross caricature of his mate’s smile “You wanted to come home to us and we’ve allowed you to. Isn’t this everything you’ve asked for? Now give us a kiss.”

“No!” Jazz yelled, backing away from the other mechs. “No! This isn’t real! This is all a dream! This isn’t happening!”

“Are you so sure of that?” Bombshell asked, materializing where Ratchet had once stood.

“NO!” Jazz screamed.

Instantly a gun was in his hand and aiming at Shrapnel.

“Jazz, you need to calm down,” Optimus Prime said, his voice a soothing command.

Jazz cycled his optics as the Autobots and the Insecticons flashed before his vision so rapidly that he lost track of reality and fantasy.

“Enough!” he growled, and suddenly as if he had been hit with an electric charge, he was flung from his body.

He watched in horror as a red and black parody of his body lifted the gun and fired at Prime. He could only scream in impotent rage as the Prime fell, his head a disintegrated mass, his body greying even as it fell.

“No!” he screamed.

His doppelganger turned to face him, his visor glowing with a strange red/purple light and suddenly Jazz recognized the mech before him. He had often dreamed of this mech and the horrors he inflicted on both Autobot and Neutral alike. This was Ricochet and he was death incarnate.

Jazz watched in horror Bumblebee ran into of the medbay only to have his head ripped off by Ricochet’s black hands with a sudden violent twist. Ratchet was next, the medic putting up a good fight before he was pinned to a wall with his own laser scalpels. The medic’s spark was ripped from his chest and in the background Jazz saw Wheeljack and Perceptor turn grey and fall the instant their partner was killed.

No one was able to stop him as he cut through the ranks, until all that was left was a pile of grey bodies littered around Iacon. In the end only Ricochet was left, his visor flashing that strange purple/red, his black and red body dripping with spilled energon and gore almost obfuscating the Decepticon sigil in the middle of his chest.

“You have done well, Ricochet,” a voice whispered.

Jazz turned to face Bombshell, feeling his optic band blank as he stared over the Decepticon’s shoulder, a part of him completely oblivious to the neutrals piled up around him.

“You have proven yourself beyond all of our expectations, Ricochet,” the Insecticon said smoothly, petting one hand down Jazz’s arm.

“Thank you,” Jazz heard himself reply tonelessly even though he wanted to scream and rail and strike down the Insecticon before him.

“You did so well that we won’t need to reinforce anything. At least not at the moment,” Bombshell said with an evil smile that promised nothing but pain.

Jazz shivered as his body reacted to a trauma that was half-imagined and half-remembered. His vision blurred as images flashed before his optics, all memories of a life he never had, each even more horrific than the last.

“I ... I can’t...” Jazz heard himself murmur as he held his rifle to the head of a quaking youngling.

All around were the bodies of Neutrals, shot apart by his own weapon leaving only this trembling youth.

“Please …,” the youngling whispered, blue optics pleading with Jazz, his field radiating with terror.

Jazz’s vision wavered and for a moment he could have sworn that the youngling before him was Bluestreak and the bodies were those of his mate’s fellow Praxians. He reached one black hand out to comfort the youth, fingers brushing against helm and chevron. Suddenly a shot rang out and the youngling fell, his body grey and optics dark before he hit the ground.

“You should know better than that, Ricochet,” Bombshell said as he sauntered up, his gun’s barrel still smoking.

“They did nothing to me,” Jazz said defiantly.

Bombshell turned to face him, crimson optics flashing in irritation and Jazz felt his systems liquefy in fear of the promise or the re-education session that was to come. The Insecticon reached up to stroke Jazz’s cheek and the Autobot shivered in a half-remembered response to that touch.

The world blurred again and images flashes before his vision. Confusing flashes of light and colour danced before him, striking from every direction and leaving him weak and cold. Destruction. Death. Pain. And woven throughout it all were flashes of two intertwined bodies – one black and white, the other purple and grey, two colours no Autobot would ever sport together. Jazz’s mind was in turmoil, ripped in a million different directions as he was assaulted by sensations that both were and weren’t his own.

“…Prowl…” he whimpered as he fought through the spark memories, as he desperately tried to control the situation. He felt his systems fritz and the part of him that was Prowl shied away at the illogic of the entire situation.

“You can’t win,” Bombshell whispered as his cruel face swam into focus before Jazz. “And not only will you _not_ win, you will _never_ get Prowl back. You are mine and I don’t share.”

Before Jazz could react Bombshell’s hand shot out and took hold of Jazz’s spark, squeezing and cracking the crystal.

“Ricochet is mine, Jazz. My masterpiece. And if I have to kill you to ensure the safety of my property, then so be it.”

With that dark promise Bombshell ripped Jazz’s spark from his chest.

\---  
Jazz came online with a start. He immediately scrabbled backwards from a blow that never came. The looked around for a frantic moment, only calming when he realized that he was back in the safe-house.

A pale light filtered in through the shaded windows and the soft sounds from the street were those of early evening. Checking his internal chronometer, a day had passed since he arrived at the safe-house.

“Are you so sure of that?”

“Stop _saying_ that!” Jazz screamed, whirling on Bombshell and closing in on him.

“Stop saying what? The truth?” The Insecticon’s chuckle never wavered as Jazz grabbed him and slammed him against the wall.

“Shut. Up!” Jazz’s hand connected with Bombshell’s face, cracking the Insecticon’s battle mask.

Bombshell’s chittering laughter filled the room as Jazz continued to slam fists, knees, and feet into the Decepticon. Energon and other vital fluids sprayed the walls as the Insecticon was reduced to slag and the Autobot’s hands were covered with gore.

Jazz stepped away from the twitching corpse, turning his back on his enemy.

“Feel better?” Bombshell asked in a low whisper.

Jazz spun toward the voice only to find the Decepticon leaning against the wall casually with no sign of the damage he had just received.

“No …” Jazz whispered as realization came crashing down on him.

“Yes,” Bombshell replied as the Autobot sank to his knees. “You can’t fight this, Jazz. Every time you try to get away from me you end up right back here.”

Jazz crumpled into a ball on the floor.

“But regardless, you’ve done a good job,” Bombshell whispered as he stroked the back of Jazz’s helm with the soothing touch of a lover and creator. “You’ve done everything we asked.”

“Please ...” The Autobot’s plea was as shattered as his broken psyche. “Please let me go … Please, I don’t want to … I can’t …”

“You just have one thing left to do for us. Just one little thing and then you can leave. You know what you need to do, Jazz. You know how you can end all of it. Just one more little task.”

Jazz looked up at his tormentor only to find the room empty. His hand came up to rub his chest where his shattered spark lay. Yes. One more thing and then he could end all of this torment. He gathered himself and made his slow, lurching way out of the safe-house turning toward Iacon and his last victim.


	6. Chapter 6

Smokescreen stalked the small boardroom like a caged animal. He and Mirage had set themselves up shortly after they had received their orders, but after a full night of research and vaguely hostile discussion they hadn’t come to any form of viable plan. And the Praxian was just about ready to walk away from the whole thing and take matters into his own hands.

“We should be doing something, ‘Raj! Sitting here plotting out potential angles isn’t going to help anyone!” Smokescreen railed.

“I already told you we need a plan before we run off half-cocked,” Mirage replied with the calm patience one reserved for a dull-witted sparkling. “And it’s Mirage. Not Raj. You don’t have the right to use such informalities with me.”

Smokescreen stopped his stalking of the room and brought his hands down heavily in the table causing the holomap to shiver and jump at the vibrations. “We have a plan. I have given you a perfectly viable plan, _Mi_ rage,” he sneered, putting far too much emphasis on the first syllable of the spy’s name. “All we’re doing is wasting time. Time that we should be spending finding Jazz. In the hours we’ve spent sitting here on our afts he could have been-”

“And you suggest we go about finding him by simply asking?” Mirage asked, interrupting the tirade. “And while we’re down in the slums asking every criminal and low-life if they’ve seen Jazz, what’s to stop them from telling the Decepticons? Or tipping off Jazz and forcing his hand?”

“Oh? And what do you suggest we do, Mirage? Continue researching all the possible places he could possibly be hiding and hope he stays put? That’s even assuming he’s still in Iacon!”

“He’s in one of our old safe houses,” the spy said, never looking up from the map he was examining.

“And how do you figure that?” Smokescreen asked.

“It’s what I’d do.”

Smokescreen looked at Mirage, incredulity written all over his face. “It’s what—Okay, fine. So you think he’s in a safe house. Which one? As I recall we had over a dozen in Iacon alone and those are the ones I knew about. I’m sure that you two kept things from me during my tenure with Special Ops. But let’s say for sake of argument that there are only the twelve; how do we even know that he’s still in Iacon? Primus knows if it was me I’d take the first opportunity to get as far away as possible. Especially since he probably thinks he’s killed Prime.”

“Yes, but you always did have the distressing habit of trying to leave before the job was fully done,” Mirage replied blandly.

“I most certainly did not!” Smokescreen snarled, doors pinning back in an uncharacteristic display of emotion. Unlike his fellow Praxians, Smokescreen had never had any difficulty keeping his expressive doors stock still.

“Of course you didn’t,” the former noblemech replied, never attempting to hide the sneer in his voice. “And you’re ignoring the key point. Jazz isn’t done yet. It makes no sense to take out Prime alone. He isn’t our only commander and Jazz made no attempt to destroy the Matrix. If he was compromised by the Decepticons, wouldn’t you think that their plan would involve more than just killing Optimus Prime?”

Smokescreen stepped back and resumed his pacing, though he moved slower than before. “I think you’re giving the ‘Cons too much credit. Besides, Prime’s death would be a huge blow to all of us. Yes, someone else could take over, but it wouldn’t change the fact that this would be the third Prime we’ve lost in recent memory and would be a huge blow to morale.”

“Morale can be lifted. Yes it would be a blow, but we've risen from worse,” Mirage replied dismissively. “No. Jazz is most certainly not done yet. He needs to take out Ultra Magnus first and then Prowl.”

Smokescreen stopped his pacing and pursed his lips thoughtfully as he ran over the new data.

“And then he needs to take you out too,” he said, looking pointedly at Mirage.

“How do you figure that one? Wishful thinking?”

Smokescreen snorted. “Hardly. Unlike some people, I don't tend to hold grudges against people who've done nothing wrong. No. My point is that he tried to take out Bumblebee and yet left Ironhide alone.”

“And yet he killed those security guards,” Mirage replied thoughtfully. “So you're suggesting that he specifically targeted Bumblebee? And the guards were simply in the way?”

“Exactly.” Smokescreen made no attempt to hide the smug tone. “Yes, Bee may have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, but so were all those medics and yet, Jazz never attacked them. Or should I say, never killed any of them. Plus, he never took anyone out on the way to getting Prime.”

The blue spy was silent for a long moment before nodding slowly. “You may have a point in that. But all that does is further cement the idea that Jazz will have remained in Iacon. He is nowhere near done with three targets left to take out.”

“Four,” Smokescreen replied.

“Three. Ultra Magnus, Prowl, and myself. You are no longer Special Ops.” A silent 'and you're no threat' hung in the air unsaid between them.

Smokescreen’s optics narrowed and for a brief moment seemed to flash an almost purple shade before he calmed, refusing to rise to Mirage’s baiting.

“Fine. Three,” he said tightly. “You know what? You keep going over those maps. I’m going to do some actual leg work on this.”

Without waiting for a response, Smokescreen turned and left the Special Operations office.

\---

The streets of Iacon were practically buzzing with the controlled panic of a populace on the edge of hysteria. As Smokescreen walked among the other pedestrians’ whispers reached his audios.

“… the Prime’s dead …”

“I heard that it was a coup. That he was killed by his honour guard.”

“… Decepticons invaded the base! They killed everyone!”

“I’m telling you, Megatron has the Matrix! We’re all walking dead mechs!”

The conversations were all the same. All whispered in hushed voices as the mechs looked about surreptitiously desperately searching for proof among their fellows that the rumours were false, and yet at the same time there seemed an almost pathological need for the tales to be true. Anything would be better than the wash of nothing that they’d been receiving lately from the Autobots.

Smokescreen shook his head as he worked his way around a cluster of miners. This panic was only going to increase until it came to a complete boil and the Autobots would be facing a war on two fronts. The Decepticons at their gates and rioting civilians inside the walls. It was a situation he had seen far too many times in the past and every one of his instincts was telling him to run, to cut his losses and get while the going was still good. It’s what he and Swindle would have done back in the day.

At the thought of his former partner, his spark clenched painfully. It had been almost two full vorn since he and Swindle had gone their separate ways and since Smokescreen had joined the Autobots. But they had been together for far longer than that and the memories were still fresh and painful. Especially the memories of that last failed meeting and the resulting incarceration of the Combaticons. Perhaps things would have been easier if Swindle actually was dead rather than trapped in a Decepticon mind prison.

“They’re lying to us!”

“Yeah, but about what?”

Smokescreen pulled his attention away from his own old spark-ache and turned back to the matter at hand. The murmurs and the grumblings were becoming more specific as groups of mechs started to focus their fear and anger. He quietly moved to a nearby storefront and began to peruse the merchandise, blending in with the mid-afternoon crowds as he took in the surrounding conversations and mechs.

“The Autobots, obviously!” a large grey and tan mech said, irritation coursing off of him in palpable waves. “Regardless of what happened, they’re not telling us the truth, and if they’re lying about something as big as the Prime getting offed, what else are they keeping from us?”

Smokescreen focused his attention on this new mech. He was large, both broad and tall and he had the look of a deep surface miner. But there was something wrong with him, something about the whole situation that set the Praxian’s doors on edge. He moved closer to the group, now consisting of miners, dock workers, and a couple of former gladiators. All large mechs and all with deep reasons to be angry. The mech at the center of their attention, the grey and tan behemoth was still talking, holding their attention like a ring master at Golden Age Circus. And that was when it hit him. There was something wrong with the mech. Yes, he looked the part, but it was too perfect, and under the grime and filth it was obvious that his finish was too perfectly tarnished and his tools were not worn enough for a mech who eked his living out under the surface of Cybertron.

Smokescreen turned away from the crowd and walked away from the assembly, heading directly toward a nearby alley while managing to look completely mindless and nonchalant. As soon as he was safely in the shadows between two buildings he opened a channel to Mirage.

“Mirage, we have an issue down here,” he said over an ultra-secure communications line used by the Special Operations team.

“ _And that would be?_ ” Mirage prompted in that bored drawl he seemed to always use when dealing with the psy ops agent.

Smokescreen bit back an angry retort. Somehow the spy always managed to push his buttons no matter what he said or did. Even the most polite conversation ended with Smokescreen ready to throttle the former noble.

“I’m out looking in the old market and all anyone’s talking about is how Prime was assassinated. According to the whispered chatter, Magnus, Prowl, and the rest of the Brass are all either offlined or fighting over who gets to be in charge,” he replied as he pulled back further into the alley as a pair of civilians strode past, both clearly looking for a fight. “We’re looking at the start of a panic down here, and I’m pretty sure there’re Con agents stirring the pot. We’re gonna have a full on riot pretty soon if these people aren’t told something definitive soon.”

“ _And what precisely do you want me to do about this?_ ”

“Well, gee, I don’t know, ‘Raj. Maybe go tell Prowl and Magnus? Since you’re still in the base playing ‘Divine the Jazz’ you’re a little closer to them than I am right now,” Smokescreen snapped back. “And as we’re looking at Decepticon infiltration and a potential leak in regular communications I thought this might be a safer way of getting the news back up there safely.”

Mirage made no attempt to hide the sigh of irritation at the mangling of his name. “ _What makes you think there’s infiltration?_ ”

Smokescreen looked out of the alley. The miner’s audience had grown and he was working them into a frenzy. Rather than describe the scene he raised the sensitivity of his mic and allowed Mirage to hear the crowd.

“We need to _demand_ an answer from, them! They have been lying to us from the beginning and we _deserve_ the truth! It is our right as citizens and they cannot deny us _OUR **RIGHTS**_! And if we need to march our way up there and take that information by force then so be it!”

The crowd roared in response yelling their agreement and demanding answers from the Autobot command.

“And that’s a small group. I’d say there are only fifty mechs listening to him,” Smokescreen said. “The thing is I know this con. I’ve _run_ this con and I can tell you that this mech isn’t working alone. There’ll be at least two more mechs out there working the citizens into a frenzy.”

There was a long pause before Mirage spoke again. “Okay. So someone’s taking advantage of the situation. And, yes, maybe they are Con agents. But _that_ is not our concern right now. We are _supposed_ to be focusing on Jazz.”

“Oh for frag’s sake, Mirage! I am looking for Jazz! I’m busy doing my damned job down here! Protecting Iacon!” Smokescreen snapped back. “Now pull off your blinders and look at the big picture! The Brass needs to know that there’s more going on here and you’re in a better position to pass on the intel than I am! Now go stop wasting time and go earn that extra pip you were so quick to throw into my face earlier!”

With that he shut down his side of the connection and slid further into the alley, leaving the crowd and the potential riot behind. He needed to get himself back together and get his irritation under control before he said or did something stupid. Just as he reached the other end of the alley he saw the two civilians from earlier. These two were being more subtle than the miner, speaking with people in hushed voices and leaving agitation in their wake. This was another con he recognized. It was one he and Swindle had run countless times before both before and during their time with the Combaticons. But he’d never stuck around to see the aftermath, or taken the time to consider the general people who were hurt all in the name of a distraction and a larger score. Old guilt and a new Autobot mentality vied with his need to get back to the mission at hand. In the end duty won out – if he took the time to intervene he’d lose any chance he had to find Jazz. Not that he had had any luck up to this point.

He hated to admit it, but maybe Mirage had been right, that maybe this plan of a physical search and using his contacts wasn't the best of plans after all. Still, he wasn't about to admit total defeat and run back to Mirage's inevitable gloating without being completely sure. Turning away from, the crowds, he headed off to check near one of the old safe houses he knew of. He still had contacts in the area, and if he was inordinately lucky, he'd end up with more to go back to Mirage with than a bruised ego.


	7. Chapter 7

Ultra Magnus couldn’t help but feel a swell of sympathy as he watched Ratchet enter the command centre. Wheeljack kept close behind him, clearly prepared to catch the larger mech when his body finally gave out of him. There was no denying that Ratchet looked like he was about ten steps away from joining the Matrix, and Magnus couldn’t help but wonder if he had recharged or refuelled at all since the day Jazz had come storming into this very room.

The City Commander found his optics drawn to the place where Optimus Prime had fallen; and even though the plating and consoles had been thoroughly cleaned, he could swear he saw the tint of spilled energon still staining the floor.

“Are you ready with your report, Ratchet?” Prowl asked, pulling Ultra Magnus away from his musings.

“No, I came up here to tell you I have nothing to tell you,” Ratchet snapped irritably.

Wheeljack reached up and put his hand on the CMO's shoulder. “Calm down, Ratch,” he murmured softly.

Ratchet sighed in irritation but did lean back against a console wearily. Even his anger at both Prowl and the situation wasn't enough to keep him on his feet for much longer. He smiled slightly to Wheeljack in acknowledgement of his friend's support.

“Prime is stable. But he won't be back online for several more orn, if not cycles. And even then, he won't be able to resume his duties for quite some time after he's up. He's going to need time to regain his lost memories and get back together mentally,” he said carefully. “And that brings me to another issue. I'm running all his systems through life support right now. They're keeping him alive, but we're running into ... issues.”

“What kind of issues?” Ultra Magnus asked carefully, fearing the answer they would be given.

Ratchet crossed his arm across his chest. “Look, I'm too tired to sweeten this. The Matrix seems to be reacting badly to all of this. I don't know what's going on for sure, but it seems to think that Prime is deactivated and it's interfering with my ability to keep his body functional. Until I get him online, one of you is going to have to take it.”

For a brief instant both the Commander and the 2IC lost their composure; Prowl's doors pinning back sharply and Magnus's mouth falling open in undisguised shock.

“Look, I don't care which of you take it, but one of you needs to, because I sure as the slag won't keep it in my med bay! The damned thing is creeping me out and my staff is all too busy staring at it to get any proper work done,” Ratchet growled at the two mechs. “You can come down and pick it up next shift.”

With that, Ratchet turned on his heel and left.

“Look,” Wheeljack said quietly when Ratchet was out of earshot. “When you decide to come pick up the Matrix, come see me first. I think it'd be best if we leave the junior medics out of this, and if I have anything to say about it, Ratchet'll be in recharge by the time you hash everything out.”

“Thank you, Wheeljack. I will let you know as soon as a decision is made,” Prowl replied. “And considering the circumstances, I am sure that we can overlook Ratchet's outburst. Right, Ultra Magnus?”

“Right,” Ultra Magnus replied with a nod before stopping as the words and implication fully set in. “Wait, what do you mean overlook his outburst? There's nothing to overlook!”

“He was insubordinate. I know that Prime turned a blind optic to these emotional displays and total lack of respect toward the command element, but this is not something that we should be encouraging,” Prowl said. His voice was calm, but there was something in his tone that betrayed just how on edge the normally logical mech was.

Without waiting to see how the argument was going to continue, Wheeljack turned and left the room, quickly following after Ratchet to suggest, bully, or otherwise encourage the CMO to get some fuel and recharge rather than go back to medical where all he was doing was monitoring Prime, Bumblebee, and the five security officers who had survived Jazz's escape.

“Prowl, the mech is under stress and you asked a pointless question,” Ultra Magnus shot back, completely ignoring Wheeljack's exit. “Yes, he shouldn't have snapped like that, but it's fully understandable that he did. I mean, you saw him! It looks like he hasn't recharged since all this started, and knowing him, he probably hasn't!”

“If the question had been pointless I would not have asked it,” Prowl replied tersely. “And this discussion is getting us away from the issue at hand. We will need to decide between us who should be in charge until Optimus is able to resume the mantle.”

“That's easy enough to deal with. You're the Second-in-Command,” Ultra Magnus said in a tone that spoke of a closed discussion. “Now beyond that, we need to de-”

“Ultra Magnus, you know as well as I that it is far from that simple. If it was we wouldn't be having this discussion.” Prowl sighed softly, a habit he seemed to have picked up since Jazz was lost. It was his only expression of the strain, but for a mech as guarded and controlled as Prowl was, the small sound spoke volumes.

“Prowl, I am _not_ command material. You are the 2IC for a reason,” Ultra Magnus replied, feeling a slight twinge of guilt as he tried to foist this added responsibility on the other mech. “I won't take it, so there's no point in wasting our time when we would be focusing on something else.”

“Magnus,” Prowl said softly, using the informal of the other mech's name. “I cannot take on this responsibility. I do not doubt that there is not a single Autobot who would ever follow me as supreme commander. We both know that I am unsuited to the more public aspects of the job. I am also ... compromised at the moment. But I will provide you with all of the support that I gave to Optimus.” It was clear that the confession was hard for Prowl, and his doorwings drooped as he spoke.

Ultra Magnus offlined his optics and shook his head slowly. “I don't want this. I'm just a soldier, I have never wanted this.”

“We are without options. And it will be for a limited amount of time,” Prowl replied. “Knowing Prime's tenacity and Ratchet's ability, Optimus will be taking the Matrix back sooner rather than later.”

“Okay. Fine,” Ultra Magnus finally agreed, obviously still hesitant to accept this field promotion. “So that's one thing down. We need to figure out what we're going to do once Mirage and Smokescreen find Jazz.”

Prowl opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted as the command centre door flew open. Both mechs reached instantly for their sidearms, only stopping when they saw a very frazzled looking Red Alert in the doorway.

“We have a leak and I need your permission to lock everything down,” the security director said rapidly. “And don't you even _think_ of denying me!”

“Red, calm down, will ya?” Ironhide said, coming in after the twitchy mech and placing a calming hand on his shoulder.

The Security Director immediately shrugged off the offending hand and spun on Ironhide. “I will not calm down! This is a serious breach and no one is taking me seriously!”

“What is this all about?” Prowl demanded, clearly irritated by the interruption.

“Mirage sent in a report that th' market is buzzin' with rumours that Prime's dead,” Ironhide replied calmly.

“The only way that rumour could have started is if we have a leak!” Red Alert cried. “I am going to lock down the base and interview everyone until we find who did it!”

“No, you are not!” Prowl snapped, the last of his patience finally giving way. “We acknowledge your concern, but we have a much larger security threat to deal with!”

Red Alert visibly rocked back in the face of the uncharacteristic display of cold anger before his own irritation and righteous indignation overtook his surprise. “Yes, fine, but-”

“No buts, Red Alert,” Ultra Magnus replied, far more calmly than Prowl. “We will make an announcement to the public when we are ready to. In the mean time you two do what you can to track down the leak and deal with any potential violence in the city proper. But you are not to lock down this base, Red Alert. The last thing we need right now is to alert the Cons that there is anything wrong. And Ironhide, you're in charge of this. No arguments, Red Alert,” Ultra Magnus ordered glaring pointedly at the security director.

“You got it, Magnus,” Ironhide replied, taking Red Alert's shoulder and pulling him from the room, ignoring his indignant squawk of complaint.

As soon as the door shut, Ultra Magnus turned to Prowl and seemed to wilt slightly.

“As I suspected,” Prowl stated. “You are the best suited of the two of us to take over.”

“Yeah, that doesn't mean that I have to like it,” the city commander replied soberly. “You going to be okay, Prowl? Things are likely to get worse from here.”

“I am not so compromised that I cannot continue in my duties,” the 2IC replied.

“Good. Because I can't do this by myself. I have no clue how Prime does it.”

“He doesn’t,” Prowl said firmly, crossing his arms under his bumper. “Yes, he’s the final authority on all decisions, but he surrounds himself with mechs he can trust to help and support him. Seeing as you are one of his more trusted advisors, I would think you would have realized this by now.”

"See this is why you should take the Matrix. But seeing as Prowlimus Prime is out of the question, I'm glad you're here to back me up,” Ultra Magnus said wryly. “This is just more proof that I don’t know what in the pit I’m doing.”

“True. But thankfully it’s only for a short time,” Prowl replied, a small smile threatening to pull up at the corner of his lips. “There’s a greater than seventy percent chance that Prime will be back with us by the end of the cycle.”

Ultra Magnus chuckled and shook his head slightly. “And you’re getting that number from where?”

“Jazz would have called it a hunch,” Prowl said softly, his hand moving up to his chest as if on its own. “He would often remind me that sometimes a hunch is better than all the numbers and scenarios.”

“That sounds like something Jazz would say,” the City Commander replied, placing a hand on Prowl’s shoulder and squeezing lightly. “Come on, my friend. We’ve been at this too long. We both need to refuel and recharge, and we can deal with the Matrix, Red Alert’s tantrums, and Jazz after we’re sure neither of us is going to fall over. In the meantime we need to let Ratchet, Ironhide, and Mirage take care of their ends of the situations.”

Prowl looked up at Ultra Magnus and after a long moment, he nodded, a small smile brightening his face momentarily.

“And you thought you weren’t suited for this job,” he said as he was led toward the officer’s mess.


	8. Chapter 8

Wheeljack followed after Ratchet as the medic stormed away from the command centre. It was clear the CMO was furious, but it was equally clear that he was running on fumes. To anyone else, he looked as Ratchet always did when he had a critical patient: irritated and looking for a head to throw a spanner at. But Wheeljack had known his friend for too long to miss the slight weakness in his step, the hint of a slouch in his shoulders, and the off-colour of his optics.

Shaking his head and sighing softly, the engineer increased his pace and quickly caught up with Ratchet, taking hold of the CMO’s elbow with a firm but gentle touch.

“Come on, Ratch. You need to refuel and recharge,” he said in a quiet voice. “Your crew can handle everything for a few hours. They’ll let you know if anything changes.”

“There are things I need to do,” Ratchet snapped. “I’ll recharge later.”

Wheeljack tightened his hold on his friend’s elbow. “Ratchet, don’t give me that slag. You’re exhausted and you’ve got to be running on empty. When was the last time you refuelled?”

Ratchet shook off the hand and continued toward medbay. “We’re on rations, remember?”

“Yeah, and last time I checked ‘rations’ didn’t mean no fuel at all.” Wheeljack was doing his best to remain patient with the other mech, but he was quickly reaching the end of his reserves. “Now either you go to your quarters for a cube and a few hours recharge, or so help me I will kick your aft to the ground and carry you there myself!”

Ratchet made a rude noise at the threat. “Jack, I need to check up on my patients. I have medical grade energon in the bay if I absolutely need it, and I can take a stimulant if required. Now let me get back to work, will you?”

Gritting his dental plates under his mask, Wheeljack fought back a growl of frustration.

“And how many stimulants have you taken in the last few orn?” he asked, making no attempt to hide the accusation in his tone. Yes it was a dirty tactic, but it was clearly the only way to get Ratchet to listen. “And just how long do you think you can keep running like this before you make a mistake? Just look at yourself! Your hands are trembling for Primus sake!

Instantly Ratchet's hands clenched into fists, hiding the faint tremor. He pulled away from Wheeljack roughly and levelled a venomous glare at his friend. “I don't need your advice, Jack,” he spat.

Without waiting for him to respond, the CMO turned on his heel and stormed away. Or he would have had he not turned too fast. A wave of dizziness hit Ratchet hard and he swayed, leaning heavily against the wall. Wheeljack was at his side instantly, slipping under Ratchet’s arm and carrying his weight as best as his smaller frame would allow.

“Come on Ratch. Just a bit of a rest and then you can go back,” Wheeljack murmured softly as he gently guided the medic away from the med bay and toward the living quarters.

“Jack, I have too much that needs to be done.” Ratchet's argument was weak and he made no attempt to pull away. In the wake of his stumble it was as if all of his remaining energy had evaporated, leaving only his irritation and duty to his patients keeping him upright. And even that was failing him now.

“And I swear to you, it'll get done,” Wheeljack replied sombrely.

They continued down the hall in silence, the engineer casting baleful glances at anyone who had the temerity to approach the pair. They quickly made it to Ratchet's quarters and Wheeljack keyed in the door code, smirking under his mask at the medic's incredulous look.

“Yeah, I know I technically shouldn't have it, that we never formally exchanged anything,” he said, biting back a chuckle as he brought Ratchet into the room. “But I figured-”

“Don't worry about it,” Ratchet said, interrupting his friend as he sat heavily on the berth. “I know when you got it. I knew then and I didn’t object then, did I?” Wearily, he scrubbed at his faceplates. “I have no energon in here. I got rid of all the high grade after the last, uhm, … after the incident.”

Wheeljack smiled in sympathy at the chagrined look on Ratchet’s face and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“I have a box of goodies,” Wheeljack replied gently, handing a small container over to the medic. “You can start with those while I go hit up medical for some appropriate energon.”

Ratchet looked at the proffered box but made no move to take it. “Those are yours,” he said flatly. “You spent a quartex worth of-”

“This kind of thing is meant to be shared,” Wheeljack said as he opened the box and pulled out a thin wafer. “After all, what’s the fun in having them otherwise? Now either you open up voluntarily or do I need to find a more _creative_ way to get you to eat this?” The engineer’s headfins lit up with amusement.

Ratchet looked from the wafer to the engineer and back, a slight twitch pulling at his lips at the threat. Finally he slowly reached out and took the candy. “All right. But just one to tide me over until you get back with the medical grade.”

Wheeljack watched Ratchet until the CMO put the goodie in his mouth. When Ratchet’s tank churned angrily, Wheeljack handed over the box.

“Eat them slow and don’t eat all of them,” he said firmly. “I’ll be right back.”

“… yes creator,” Ratchet replied, but there was little of the usual snark in the words.

Wheeljack chuckled softly before running an affectionate hand up Ratchet’s arm as he left the room. As soon as the door shut behind him he let out a soft sigh and opened a communications line to Perceptor.

“Percy? I’ve got Ratch back to his room, but I’ve gotta go get him some fuel and I’m pretty sure he’s gonna bolt the second I leave the door.”

The engineer heard Perceptor chuckle softly and could picture him shaking his head in resigned amusement.

“ _Why am I not in any way surprised?_ ” Perceptor asked.

“Because our mech’s as predictable as the moons’ rise sometimes,” Wheeljack replied as he headed off toward the med bay. “I’ve left him with a box of energon goodies to tide him over, but it’s clear that his processor’s caught in a loop again. He’s not going to be happy until he’s back in medbay if we don’t figure out a way to break the cycle.”

The engineer heard Perceptor sigh over the channel.

“ _I will see what I can do to keep him occupied and relaxed until you return with fuel._ ” There was a pause and when Perceptor spoke again there was a deep worry in his tone. “ _… We need to talk to him, Jack. If he keeps up like this we are going to lose him … I am not sure that I can deal with that. … actually, I know I cannot._ ”

Wheeljack paused mid-stride, nearly stumbling as his spark clenched painfully at the thought.

“It’s not gonna come to that, Percy,” he said softly. “Not with both of us here for him t’ lean on. We’ll make sure he’s okay, an’ he’ll do the same for us.”

“ _Right,_ ” Perceptor said softly. Then, as if shaking himself his tone changed to something lighter. “ _I will see you in Ratchet's quarters. I am sure I can ensure our better third does not go anywhere._ ”

With that, Perceptor closed his side of the connection leaving Wheeljack to head off to the medbay.

\---

Perceptor arrived at Ratchet's quarters just as the CMO was leaving the room.

“And where precisely do you think you are going, mister?” Perceptor asked in his best imitation of the medic.

For the briefest moment Ratchet looked like a youngling caught in the act of stealing energon goodies. But then, just as quickly, he was back to the arrogant, self-possessed Chief Medical Officer.

“I need to get back to Medical to check on Prime and Bumblebee.”

“No you do not” Perceptor said firmly, coming up behind Ratchet and slipping his hands around the medic's broad chest. “What you need to do is rest and refuel. Do you really think that Wheeljack and I would be trying to keep you here if we weren't one hundred percent sure that things were well in hand in Medical?”

Ratchet slumped slightly before drawing himself back up and placing his hands on Perceptor's, firmly intending to remove the scientist. For his part, Perceptor tightened his grip and kissing the medic's shoulder lightly.

“Percy, please,” Ratchet whispered as he tried to stop himself from leaning back into the touch.

“No Ratch,” Perceptor said softly, running his hands up over the larger mech's chest seals. “You need to rest. You need to refuel.” The smaller scientist moved around to face Ratchet and draped his arms around the medic's waist. “Ratchet, I do not doubt you or your ability at all, but I fear that if something happens, if something were to go wrong because you are so worn out …” Perceptor let the statement hang in the air as he looked up at the medic, his optics wide and pleading.

“I can't just do nothing, Perce,” Ratchet murmured as he gave in and pulled the scientist into a hug. He took a shuddering breath through his vents. “I keep thinking that if I'm not there and something happens-”

Perceptor rose up on the tips of his pedes and placed a gentle kiss to Ratchet's lips, cutting him off mid-sentence. “You trained your staff yourself. You hand-picked them and I have the ultimate faith in them. And I know that you do too. Bumblebee is doing much better and if Prime takes a turn for the worse your team will let you know immediately. And I also know that Wheeljack and I are there to back you up no matter what.”

“I know.” Ratchet sighed. “I know that you and my team are there and that I have back up. But you have to see it from my side. This is my responsibility. I decided that we didn't need to restrain Jazz. I argued that we didn't need security in the bay. I failed to predict that this might happen and I _should_ have. I mean, I _knew_ that there was a good possibility that the Decepticons had done something to Jazz. They had him for over a _solar_!”

Ratchet's voice became more incensed as he spoke, but he never pulled away from Perceptor and the scientist allowed him to vent as he needed to. Instead he ran his hands up Ratchet's back in soothing circles.

“Yeah, I know that I'm overanalyzing and I know that, logically, there's nothing that I could have done. But I can't stop myself from thinking and I just … I dunno … my processor is running in circles and I can't stop it.”

Perceptor pressed in closer to Ratchet and took a chance, sending a gentle pulse of warm spark energy into the medic. It wasn't enough to be sensual, just enough to emphasize his love for the medic.

Ratchet leaned into Perceptor with a groan, sending the energy back in a stuttering swirl.

“Can I talk you into taking this back to your room?” Perceptor asked quietly, his optics darkening slightly.

Ratchet was silent for a long time, just holding Perceptor close as conflicting emotions ran through his system. Finally he nodded slightly and pulled away. Exhaustion was written all over his face and in every move. It was like all of his energy and defiance had dissipated with his agreement to rest.

Perceptor reached around him and punched in the code, opening the door and helping the medic to enter.

“Red Alert would have a fit if he knew that both of you had the code to this door,” Ratchet murmured as he sat on the berth, taking the box of energon goodies in hand.

Perceptor chuckled, sitting next to the medic. “Yes, well we have reason to be in here and we would never take undue advantage of the knowledge. Besides, Red Alert needs to learn to lighten up slightly. If for no other reason than his own well-being.”

Perceptor reached out and took a goodie. With an impish smile he slipped it between his lips and leaned forward to kiss Ratchet, offering the treat seductively.

Ratchet couldn’t help but chuckle as he leaned forward and accepted the treat and the kiss, his lips moving gently against his lover’s. Red hands came up to stroke Perceptor’s face as Ratchet deepened the kiss with a deep weariness and an overwhelming need for comfort. The medic’s spark reached out for Perceptor’s and the scientist returned the need with gentle passion and what felt like infinite love.

Neither heard the door open or Wheeljack enter. The engineer fought the urge to chuckle as he watched his friends and lovers moved on the berth. He didn’t want to say anything, but at the same time …

“I’ll admit, that’s an interestin’ way t’ keep him occupied there, Percy,” Wheeljack said with a chuckle that morphed into a full out laugh as his friends turned toward him guiltily.

“Oh, don’t stop on my account,” he said as he came to sit on the berth behind Ratchet, one black hand coming to rest on the medic’s back. “I just thought that you two might like some fuel.”

He pulled three cubes of dark pink medical grade energon from subspace and offered one to Ratchet.

“I had the energon goodies. I’ll be fine until tomorrow’s rations,” Ratchet replied, ignoring the offered fuel.

His body had other ideas though as his tank churned angrily. Ratchet looked down at his hands sheepishly, optics darkening in embarrassment as he took the cube without any further protest.

Wheeljack and Perceptor shared a knowing smile as the medic drank his cube slowly. Silently the engineer pulled out two small devices and handed one to his partner. Perceptor’s curious look was replaced by a smile as he recognized the electro-therapy device in his hand. Without a word, Wheeljack ran the device over Ratchet’s broad back, drawing a soft moan from the medic as the room was filled with the scent of ozone.

“You have been neglecting yourself again, Ratch,” Perceptor said, sniffing the air lightly. “We should not smell that much ozone from you.” His tone was light with no recriminations as he began to run the device over Ratchet’s leg, focusing on the knee joint.

“I’m not-”

“It’s okay, Ratch,” Wheeljack said softly, cutting the CMO off. “Trust me, we both know how easy it is t’ let th’ care lapse when we get caught up in stuff.”

Ratchet turned to glare at Wheeljack, but there was no true ire in the look. “Yeah, yeah, I know. But I’m not about to take advice from you, ‘Jack.”

“It is true that Wheeljack is not the best one to give such advice,” Perceptor said, ignoring the look that the engineer shot him. He reached out and took hold of Ratchets chin with black fingers, turning the medic to face him. “You know that you can always turn to either – or both – of us to do this for you, Ratchet. I know that I for one enjoy these massages. I enjoy taking care of you both even though I sometimes get caught up in my work and may-”

Ratchet leaned in and kissed Perceptor gently, cutting off the scientist mid-ramble. “I know, Percy. And I thank you. Both of you,” he added, turning toward Wheeljack, cupping the inventor’s cheek gently.

“So, this mean yer gonna rest up?” Wheeljack asked as he leaned into the touch.

“Fine,” Ratchet said with a sigh, but there was no real defeat in his tone.

“Good,” Perceptor said with a smile. “Then finish that energon and lie down so that we can work this excess static out of your system.”

“Actually I have a better idea for that,” Ratchet said with a smouldering look at Perceptor and the scientist felt himself shiver at the gaze.

The medic pressed in close, claiming Perceptor’s mouth with a fierce and needy kiss. Wheeljack retracted his mask and wrapped himself around Ratchet’s back, his arms coming up to stroke Perceptor’s arms as he felt the start of the spark energy exchange between his lovers.

Wheeljack’s lips skimmed their way over Ratchet’s shoulder, paying close attention to the transformation seam and chuckling softly as he felt more than heard the groan they pulled from the medic.

Black hands moved feverishly over Ratchet’s body drawing needy moans from their lover as the medic lost himself to the sensations. Ratchet tried to keep up but exhaustion was clouding his processor as he was pulled along by the sensations of those skilled hands and lips and the swirl of spark energy spiralling into him from both sides.

“Percy …. Jack …,” he moaned, throwing his head back, resting it against Wheeljack’s shoulder.

The new position gave Perceptor full access to his throat and the sensitive tensor cables. He took full advantage, leaning in to suckle on Ratchet’s neck while Wheeljack began to tease the medic’s chevron with a practiced touch.

Ratchet’s spark energy sputtered and danced wildly under the assault and he was reduced to needy moans and a tumble of words that made little sense save as demands for more. Wheeljack looked up and grinned wickedly at Perceptor who returned the look with a silent, knowing nod. With that non-verbal cue they gathered up their energy and sent it spiralling into Ratchet.

For an instant the room was silent. Ratchet stiffened between the two mechs and then, as if a dam had been broken arched in their arms and howled in ecstasy as he was overrun by his overload. His energy shot back into Wheeljack and Perceptor, wild and unfocused, and their answering cry was just as loud.

Wheeljack caught Ratchet’s prone body as the medic slumped between them and smiled at Perceptor.

“C’mere,” he said softly, reaching out to stroke Perceptor’s cheek.

As soon as the scientist was close, Wheeljack kissed him with a gentle passion.

“It has been too long since we have done this,” Perceptor said quietly as he pulled away and began to help arrange Ratchet’s recharging form on the berth.

“Hmmm … yeah. Th’ size o’ that overload alone is proof o’ that,” Wheeljack said, pulling Perceptor in close and kissing him again. “An’ it shouldn’t take us havin’ ta ambush him to make him relax.”

“Agreed,” Perceptor murmured, his hands moving to the blades on Wheeljack’s shoulders. With Ratchet between them, he hadn’t been able to reach the sensitive appendages earlier.

“Ah, now now, Percy, we can’t go bein’ hypocritical now, can we?” Wheeljack asked, pulling back slightly.

Perceptor was about to put slightly as his lover, partner, and friend pulled away but then curiosity go the better of him.

“Hypocritical? How so?”

Wheeljack silently handed a cube of medical high grade to Perceptor.

“Ah, yes, of course. We cannot allow our own health to suffer any more than Ratchet can.”

Perceptor took a sip of the cube and looked over at the CMO. A soft, almost melancholy sigh escaped him as he reached over to stroke Ratchet’s face with dark fingers.

“We are never going to be able to convince him that this is not his fault, are we?”

“Prolly not,” Wheeljack replied in an equally soft voice. “All we can do is be there for ‘im and do everythin’ we can to try an’ make it all as easy as possible.”

Perceptor nodded then cuddled up against the engineer. Companionable silence descended upon the room broken only by the sound of Ratchet and Wheeljack’s engines.

“An’ we can also face ‘im inta next cycle when we need to,” Wheeljack finally said with a chuckle, squeezing Perceptor against him gently and leaning in to kiss the scientist.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A question has come up in regards to timing in this story. I chose not to use time stamps because I started to find the whole thing confusing given that I wasn’t working with Earth time references so I left it alone. All I will say is that time has passed since Jazz walked into the command centre and that this chapter occurs at the same time as Chapter 7 and 8.
> 
> And a massive special thanks to spectrumphoenix and ayngelcat for support and beta-work!
> 
> Because it’s been a while:   
> Notes on terminology:  
> Second = Klik (8.3 seconds)  
> Minute = Breem (83 seconds)  
> Hour = Groon (83 minutes)  
> Day = Orn (33 Hours)  
> Week = Cycle (10 days)  
> Month = Quartrex (4 weeks)  
> Year = Solar (13 months – 432 days)  
> Century = Vorn (83 years)

Mirage slipped silently through the crowds of the marketplace, moving like a shadow among the other mechs. There had been a time when a Noble would have stood out like a neon sign in a place like this. Since the Crystal Towers fell the few remaining Nobles had fallen onto hard times and it was no longer unusual to see an Empty with a finely crafted frame and the hint of high end polish under the rust. No one ever paid them any mind because even with the loss of everything the Nobility never relinquished their arrogance. Help was never accepted, and Primus forbid if any of them were to turn to either faction for protection. Mirage was the exception and he knew that it was only a matter of time before he was the last of his kind.

Shaking aside the melancholy that threatened to rise up and overwhelm him, Mirage focused on the task at hand. He had tracked Jazz down to one of two safehouses in the Iacon Market District. Two possible locations that would allow him access to the base proper while still granting him several escape routes out of Iacon and out of sight of any security patrols. Now all Mirage needed to do was narrow that number down to one. 

It wouldn’t be easy to talk Jazz down on his own, but he would be damned if he was going to contact Smokescreen. The very notion of working with the con-mech bothered him. After all, there was a good reason why Smokescreen had washed out of Special Operations. He was impatient, he lacked any form of discipline, and he had far too many exploitable habits.

Mirage must have had a diode burned out when he had suggested Smokescreen as a Special Ops agent all those vorns ago. Shaking his head he dismissed his irritation at the Psy-Ops agent and focused back on the task at hand. Jazz was his only concern, not an infuriating -- and thankfully former -- colleague.

He was nearly at the other end of the marketplace when he felt the shift in the crowd’s energies. What had been a nervous flutter was now a feeling of barely contained rage. A moment later he heard angry shouts coming from the other side of the square as a group of labourers entered, led by a powerful looking blue and green mech, likely a dock worker from his build and size.

“We demand answers! We have the right to know the truth!” the stevedore yelled, his deep voice rising above the shouts, seeming to direct and work the crowd’s anger. “Just like the Senate before them, the Autobots are _lying_ to us all!”

The crowd roared in response, surging forward as their leader jumped up on a broken dais that had once been a bandstand of some sort.

“We are being ruled by a puppet leadership who care only for themselves! They allow us to starve while they live like they were in the Towers!” he said, his voice becoming more impassioned with every word. He turned and stabbed one massive finger at the Autobot headquarters. “They sit up there in luxury while we starve! While Empties recharge on the streets! While gangs of the Lost commit acts of cannibalism in a desperate bid to survive! This is not what we were promised! This is not what we are owed! And they are lying to us about our situation! They promise that we are winning this war, that we have Primus on our side.”

The crowd cried out in response, their agitation growing with every word. This stevedore turned political leader had Neutral and Autobot alike hanging on his every word and he was subtly and methodically working them up to a frenzied state. This was no mere speech, this was the creation of a mob of fanatics and the stevedore was their puppeteer.

“Well I demand proof of these claims!” he continued, righteous fury lacing his voice. “If the Prime cares so deeply for us, if Optimus is not just another Sentinel, then let him come down here and tell us this himself!”

Mirage carefully moved around the edge of the crowd, now standing directly in his path to the first safehouse. He knew that he should move on and leave the rabble to their riot, but something about the whole situation piqued his interest. 

Smokescreen had sent a warning that there were Decepticon infiltrators working the crowd to a frenzy, and this mech certainly seemed to fit the description of what the psychologist had described. Yes, he seemed to be nothing more than a dock worker, a Near-Empty fighting for the rights of his fellows. But Mirage had learned long ago to look past the obvious and he was able to see the small, tell-tale signs that all was not as it seemed with this stevedore. He had the paint and the dirt and the accent down perfectly, but it was his hands that gave him away. 

Even at this distance Mirage could see that those hands had never seen the hard labour of the Rust Sea docks. So the question became what were the Decepticons hoping to accomplish? Assuming that it was them behind all this and not a third party of allied Neutrals.

“You need to go back to your homes.”

Mirage focused his attention on the newcomers. One of Ironhide’s guards stepped forward, the crowd parting instantly for the troops as they marched into the square as a single entity.

“There are to be no unapproved gatherings at this time,” the commander said as he addressed the crowd, his voice calm but powerful with the authority he carried. “As such you are all asked to return to your homes in a peaceful and orderly fashion.”

“No!” cried the dock worker. “No, we will not be dismissed so easily!”

He turned to the crowd and motioned out to them, encompassing them all with the gesture. 

“You see my friends? We ask for answers, we hold a peaceful demonstration and the Autobots respond with a show of force!” Massive hands closed into fists as he raised his arms to the heavens. “This unwarranted reaction is proof positive that the Autobots are hiding things from us! Optimus Prime would _never_ respond in this way! Optimus Prime is dead and the military has taken over! It is the corruption of the old Senate! All! Over! Agai-”

A shot rang out from the security mechs, a bolt of green energy that hit the rebellious leader in the back. For an instant there was nothing but silence, then the world was flung into motion as the mech’s chest shattered into a cloud of metal and gore. His body was grey and his optics dark before he hit the ground. And the square exploded…..

The gathered neutrals threw themselves at Ironhide’s guards and the soldiers responded. Shots fired out from the guards’ rifles connected with the civilians and sent the smaller, slighter mechs tumbling to the ground like broken toys. 

Unfortunately the crowd also contained massive miners and former gladiators, and they were not about to be taken down by a few stun weapons. The largest of the miners simply shrugged off the damage, continuing forward in a slow, lumbering, relentless crawl. The gladiators fell back to solars and, in some cases, vorns of experience in the battle arenas of Pax, Vos, and Kaon. In the face of this combined effort, the Autobot security detail could do nothing save fall back to a better location, leaving the crowd of neutrals to destroy the square.

Mirage’s optics narrowed as he pulled back into the shadows at the edge of the square and reactivated his disruptor. There was definitely something wrong with this entire situation, and he wasn’t about to involve himself in it. The security troops knew better than to create a martyr out of the leader of this little rebellion; yet that was exactly what they had done. 

Mirage recalled security protocols. Ironhide didn’t issue lethal weapons to the troops serving in the city centers, and whilst such devices could be easily modified, none of the troops appeared to have done this. So where, exactly, did the killing shot come from?

The spy looked around, taking in the chaos. With an analytical optic, he stripped away the violence and the insanity of the scene to see everything at the most basic level possible. The shot had come from behind Ironhide’s troops, not from them. But why would a third party want the leader of this little uprising taken out?

Just then, a movement on the other side of the square caught his attention. Behind the crowd and the violence, the fallen stevedore was being pulled toward a far alley by two smaller mechs. As soon as they were far enough away, the mob leader stood and deactivated a personal holo-imager, proving himself to be a much smaller and much less impressive specimen. Clearly he was the Decepticon infiltrator that Smokescreen had suspected. The holo-imager alone was proof of that. It was far too expensive a device for a starving Neutral to own and operate. Especially considering how long he had been guiding the crowd’s anger.

“… slag …” Mirage murmured to himself. He didn’t have time for this. He didn’t have time for any kind of distractions, especially not when Jazz would use them to his advantage. 

But at the same time this was the last thing that the Autobots needed, and as stand-offish as he was toward his fellows, Mirage’s loyalty was to the cause. Logic won out over loyalty, however. The fact was that he needed to focus on his primary mission. He could not allow himself to get distracted. Ironhide’s troops were well trained and they could handle this on their own. They would have to.

Mirage made his way across the square, staying at the edges of the crowd and engaging only when he absolutely had to. His electro-disruptor would only work for so long and every fight was a loss of precious time and energy that he could not afford. Thankfully the mob was in no way skilled and were focused entirely on the Autobot security patrol, allowing Mirage to slip by undetected.

He arrived at the safehouse - only to find it in a shambles. The furniture was overturned and broken and the floors and walls bore were covered with scrapes of black and white paint. Most distressing though was the trail of energon and coolant making Jazz’s condition all too obvious …

Mirage allowed himself to indulge in a rare and vicious curse before restructuring his plan. It was obvious he had missed Jazz by a mere breem. Now Jazz was out there, injured, and more dangerous than ever as he closed in on his remaining targets.

***

Meanwhile, Smokescreen couldn't help but follow the miner and his gang of dissidents as they made their way to a nearby market. Already they were attracting followers. The voices grew louder and angrier, finally exploding as they reached the square, merging with the riot that was already going strong.

"Great ...," Smokescreen murmured. "Like we need this."

He was about to contact Ironhide and warn him of the fighting, when he caught a flash of black, white, and putty moving through the edges of the crowd.

Everyone who came into contact with Jazz moved aside as if pushed by an invisible force. Even while attacking Autobot security troops, these mechs had enough sense of self-preservation not to mess with the saboteur. Sadly, Smokescreen didn't have that luxury.

Smokescreen watched as Jazz, began to move through the edge of the crowd, doing his best to blend in. He was forced to fall back on only half remembered skills. Even in his previous days of Special Operations, , invisibility had never been Smokescreen’s strong suit, and he had always preferred instead to talk his way into and out of places and problems. 

He was so focused on keeping Jazz in his sights that he failed to notice the two large mechs who broke off from the crowd and begin to tail him in turn. 

Jazz was moving as though he were overcharged, weaving and stumbling as he moved at the edges of the crowd. Occasionally he would stop and motion wildly, pointing at someone who wasn't there. This seemed clearly engaged a heated, one-sided argument.

“I know I need to, but it'll be in my own time,” he spat. “I will not be rushed in this!”

Smokescreen crept forward, hoping to get close enough to Jazz to gain his attention in a controlled manner. He knew that he couldn’t take the saboteur down in a one-on-one fight, but if he could engage him in dialogue then he might stand a chance to talk him down from whatever mental ledge he was on. 

Of course, Smokescreen’s plan would only work if he could get Jazz away from the crowd and somewhere less chaotic, somewhere he wouldn’t get spooked by the frenzied populace. Or worse, catch the attention of an overzealous guard. They were distracted right now, but it would only take one of them looking over and seeing Jazz to ruin everything.

The psy-ops agent maneuvered to get into Jazz’s line of sight. He was almost to his intended mark when large hands descended on to his shoulders. He knew at once, with a chill to his spark, exactly who it was.

“Going somewhere?’ said the obvious Decepticon agent.

Smokescreen froze for a bare instant before striking back with his elbow and flaring his doors wide. A grunt sounded from behind him. But the hand didn’t loosen.

“Can't have you getting in the way of the boss's plan,” a second voice whispered. Before he knew it, Smokescreen was pulled close. To his dismay, they began to steer him away from the crowd - and from Jazz.

Fortunately Smokescreen’s training and past experience served him well. 

“And what is this boss's plan? he asked smoothly, pitching his voice carefully and adjusting his field to radiate invitation as he allowed himself to lean back against his captor. “I can’t not interfere if I don’t know what I’m interfering with, now can I?” It certainly wouldn't hurt to let whoever this was think they had won, and he was far more comfortable with this angle than with any more direct route.

“Boss’s got big plans fer the lot of you,” the mech behind him growled. “And it ain’t like I’m gonna tell you anything, is it?”

Smokescreen found his arms pinned close as the other mech came to stand in front of Smokescreen. His massive yellow and green face nearly blocked the view of the square. 

“You aren’t going to slick your way into our heads, Smokescreen,” he purred. “Oh yeah - we know who you are and how you play your games. Vortex told us all about you before he got put away.”

The mech chuckled darkly reached out one acid-green hand to grasp one of Smokescreen’s doors in far too intimate a fashion. “He asked us to send his regards if we ever made your acquaintance. Seems you and him had a lot of unfinished business that he wanted tied up,” he added with a smile that promised third-party payback.

Smokescreen managed to control his shock “I don’t know what you’re talking about, big guy,” he responded with only a salesman’s smile.. But I’m sure we can discuss the matter and come to some kind of - uh - mutual understanding?” 

As he spoke, Smokescreen carefully retracted his hand, preparing to flood the area with smoke. The blinding effects of the clinging, sticky gas would give him just enough time to slip away from the mech behind him and lose himself in one of the side alleys. Yes, it would mean losing track of Jazz, but it was likely that shuttle had already flown.

“Yeah, we both know that isn’t going to happen, mech. At least not in any way that’s you’ll like.”

The hands on Smokescreen’s arms tightened and the yellow mech took hold of the Autobot’s chin in a vice grip. The Decepticon opened his mouth to say more…

A body suddenly flew into their midst, evidently thrown in the course of the riot that still raged in the square. It crashed in front of them. Smokescreen seized the moment, twisting in his captor’s grip and spraying a blast of smoke in his face. 

The rear Decepticon stumbled back in shock, away from the cloud, orange hands coming up to cover his face. In an instant Smokescreen transformed and launched himself, flooring the huge mech. Then Smokescreen was on him, pinning him to the ground.

“Who’s your boss and what’s his plan?” Smokescreen demanded, pressing his gun into a gap in the Decepticon’s chest plating.

The orange mech sneered at the Autobot. “Like I’m gonna tell you that one. There ain’t nothin’ that you can do to me that’d make me give the boss up. You ain’t nearly scary enough.”

“Trust me,” Smokescreen said flatly, his optics darkening to an almost purple shade, “you have no idea how scary I can be.”

The Autobot was about to follow through with his unspoken threat when a shot rang out. The Decepticon’s head dissolved instantly. Smokescreen only just managed to roll away as he was splashed with energon and metal gore. Cursing viciously, he scanned the area, looking for the shooter.

“Get down!” Mirage yelled as he tackled the psychologist, rolling him on the ground. “Are you out of your mind?! Get to cover now, you suicidal moron!”

Smokescreen’s optics narrowed as his vision was flooded with Towers blue. Had the order come from anyone else with any other tone, he might have accepted it without argument. The Noble seemed determined to aggravate him and Smokescreen wasn’t about to take any more of it.

“Frag you, Mirage! I had everything under control!” he hissed, pushing Mirage off of his chest and rolling to his feet.

“Oh Yeah?” Mirage sneered. “That’s why you never saw the ‘Cons and why you were falling back on old _habits_?” Accusation dripped off every word. Then Smokescreen was being pulled towards a nearby alley. “And thanks to you I’ve lost Jazz!”

Smokescreen went to spit out a venomous retort, but before he could a black and white form hurtled into Mirage, knocking him to the ground. 

“Jazz?” Mirage gasped.

Before Smokescreen could react, black hands closed around Mirage’s throat. “Jazz, it’s me, Mirage!” the Noble yelled. “Stop this! Get a hold of yourself!”

Jazz’s optics were blank, his body responding as if it was remotely possessed. He held off every one of Mirage’s strikes. Smokescreen attempted to fend him off; however, Jazz paused just long enough to send the psy-ops agent flying back into a wall as the he attempted to aid the spy.

“Jazz, we’re your friends, remember? We’re your friends and colleagues and all we want to do is help you to come back to us,” Smokescreen gasped as he threw himself back onto Jazz. He carefully modulated his voice to a low, soothing drone, trying to weave his words in past the madness and the haze that had invaded Jazz’s mind and spark. “Let us help you get back to where you belong.”

Smokescreen never saw where the grenade came from. Jazz’s hand was empty one minute, slamming into Mirage’s chest, then next there was a lit and beeping grenade and it was counting down fast.

“… Almost …” Jazz murmured. “… almost back with you …”

“Jazz! Please!” Mirage cried, his noble heritage slipping as a plea cracked at his voice. “Don’t do this!”

For an instant, the world froze -Mirage pinned to the ground under Jazz, Smokescreen clinging to the saboteur’s arm in desperate bid to pull him off the spy, Behind them the world exploded into the chaos of gunfire and death. 

The scene held for what felt like an eternity. “…. No ….” A near silent utterance escaped Jazz’s mouth. Suddenly the world sprang back into motion... 

Jazz transformed, throwing Smokescreen off. The saboteur sped off, away from the square, leaving behind his intended victim - and the lit grenade.

Only vorns of experience saved the two Autobots. Mirage sprang to his feet, shoving Smokescreen away and behind a fallen piece of building. He pinned the psychologist to the wall with his slim form, pressing in far closer than was proper as the explosion ripped down the alley, bathing the two in heat before finally dissipating.

Smokescreen held Mirage close for an instant, close enough to feel the spy’s field and hear the ragged whirr of his cooling system. Far too close for them to properly be – but for a micron, near death overcame common sense. 

Their optics met, and a flash of something passed between them. Then just as suddenly, Mirage was pulling away, his noble mask slipping back into place, a sneer pulling at his lips as he brushed dust and grit off his chest.

“And now we’ve lost Jazz - _again_!” His voice was cold as the depths of space, his body language screaming disappointment and accusation.

“Thankfully, I’m pretty sure I know where he’s going.” Smokescreen managed to keep his cool, refusing to let the spy get to him or be distracted by whatever it was that had just slipped between them. “If he thinks that he took you out in that explosion, then he’s going to the barracks to go finish off Magnus.”

“He knows he won’t get into the base,” Mirage replied stiffly.

“Yeah, he doesn’t need to. Magnus is going to address the crowd. I heard some of the Neutrals talking about it.” Smokescreen transformed and idled next to the spy. “Assuming, of course, that you’re right about his plan.”

“Of course I’m right,” Mirage sniffed, but there was less poison in his tone as he sank down into his alt mode and drove off toward the garrison, trusting that Smokescreen would follow.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it was with Chapter 9, many multitudes of thanks go out to ayngelcat and spectrumphoenix for support and beta work!

Prowl lowered himself wearily into his berth, hand rubbing mindlessly at his chest. It had become an unconscious movement ever since Jazz had gone missing over a solar before. Since his return and subsequent escape, the movement had become almost chronic as Prowl found himself in near constant pain. The dull ache of absence had become a throb of need now that he had been so close to Jazz.

He offlined his optics with a sigh and tried to slip into recharge, ignoring the discomfort in his hinges as he lay on his back. Normally it was only during recharge that he was able to relax, able to let his guard down. A shuddering breath left his vents as he fought back a wave of despair. Jazz had been so close. He had been right there in their hands, safely in the Med Bay and they had _lost_ him!

White hands clenched at his sides as anger bubbled up inside him. It was like the universe was playing some kind of cruel prank – allowing his bondmate to return, to be so very close, and then to snatch him away again! The pain of these reopened wounds was almost unbearable.

“ _It would almost be easier if he had never returned,_ ” a voice said in the back of his processor.

Prowl’s optics onlined instantly, one hand flying up to stifle the sob of anguish that threatened to break free. How could he even think such a thing? How could he even contemplate something so awful?

Unbidden, numbers and calculations floated to the forefront of his consciousness, each one playing out the odds of everything that had happened.

_20.98% chance that Jazz would be captured on any given mission._  
32.72% chance that he would be compromised on the mission that did see him captured  
75.31% chance that the Decepticons would execute him  
51.88% chance that the execution would be broadcast for all to see 

Prowl pushed the numbers away and jerked upright. When Jazz had been there he had always had the ability to ward off the spiralling numbers that consumed Prowl’s mind, but without his bondmate it was as if he was fighting a losing battle. Emotions warred with logic. The resulting maelstrom was enough to drive him mad.

_78.45% chance that Prowl would never see Jazz again_  
85.642% chance that Jazz would never return to his old self  
68.3% chance that Prowl himself would never recover from this breach  
98.92% chance that Prowl would die when the bond broke as a result of Jazz’s death  
99.95% chance that if he did survive he would be driven insane with grief 

He began to stalk the room like a caged creature, trying desperately to block the percentages and possibilities. A dozen steps one way, a dozen steps the other; a dozen new numbers springing up in his logic centres. Energy bubbled within him, as it always did when he tried to wind down. It was in these quiet times that the stresses bore down on him the most. 

There had been a time when Prowl would have confessed his fears and doubts to Jazz, and the saboteur would have helped him work through them. And if talk didn't work, then Jazz would have used other methods to calm the tactician.

Prowl's thoughts rolled back to the last time that he and Jazz had been together, the last time the numbers had overwhelmed him. It had been over a solar, but he would still feel the saboteur's black fingers working their way over his frame, dipping into seams and over his doors. Jazz would always tackle the issue differently every time with no sense of logic and no pattern for Prowl's processor to latch onto. It always ended the same way, with Prowl arching and crying out on the berth desperately trying to keep up and failing every time. It didn't matter though; Prowl always relaxed and he was finally able to let go of his stresses and strain and lose himself to his bondmate. Jazz would always call it his own brand of therapy, would laugh at what he imagined Neuron would say on the subject.

Prowl’s hand came up to his chest, tracing over his spark chamber. A shudder passed through his frame as he tried to lose himself in the memories. It had been a solar since Jazz had been taken from him; a solar since the dull ache in his spark had begun to gnaw at his body and mind. When working, he’d been able to lose himself and ignore the pain - but each orn it had become harder. Each orn he’d had to subsume himself further and further into the depths of his logic centres just to avoid breaking. Soon, even work had not been enought enough to keep the pain at bay and he’d found himself slipping, especially when he felt the pitying stares of his fellow Autobots as he entered a room.

“ _Even they know this was a mistake,”_ the voice said, sounding smug. _“And no matter how much you argue, you know the truth of it too._ ”

Prowl shook his head to silent the voice and sat back down on the edge of the berth.

“… it was never a mistake …” Prowl’s voice was low, barely audible over the sound of his fans in the otherwise silent room.

“ _There would be nowhere near this much pain if there was no emotional attachment._ ”

Again Prowl shook his head. This was wrong, so very wrong. He knew that he was suffering from a lack of recharge and that he hadn’t had a proper defrag in far too long but neither should result in a hallucination like that. 

Perhaps he should be talking to someone, but he knew what the advice would be. Ratchet had already suggested sedatives to help him recharge, and Neuron had made her opinion clear when Jazz had gone missing. And even though he knew that her suggestions made perfect logical sense, he couldn’t bring himself to block the bond completely or look into having it reversed. That would mean giving up on his bond mate completely.

“ _But isn’t that what you’re doing? You know that Mirage will follow your orders and will terminate Jazz if necessary._ ”

Prowl stood up. He turned his attention to the desk where he kept the recharge coding stick that Ratchet had given him shortly after Jazz's disappearance -when it became obvious to the CMO that Prowl had stopped recharging properly. Rather than deal with the pitying looks and opening himself up to the pain, he’d accepted Ratchet’s recommendation that he induce recharge artificially and, subsequently monitored himself, ensuring that no one would see that weakness again. 

Then he’d thrown himself into his work and closed himself off emotionally as he’d relied more and more on numbers, logic, and regulations. Every orn that passed now saw Prowl become more insular, more automatic, and it was only in this room when he was finally forced to go off shift, that his guard finally, and unwillingly, dropped.

“ _It would have been easier if you had never bonded to Jazz,_ ” the voice at the back of his processor said, its tone low and almost seductive. “ _The choice was completely illogical and now you are paying for that mistake._ ”

“It wasn’t,” he whispered to the room. “There was nothing more logical than bonding to Jazz.”

But that wasn’t true and he knew it. The decision had been purely emotional. It had been a moment of thoughtless bliss, and now he was paying the price for giving in to an illogical response.

_97.45% chance that Prowl would have fabricated a logical reason to bond._  
87.85% chance that Jazz’s influence is beneficial.  
89.38% chance that Jazz’s influence is detrimental.  
32.35% chance that Jazz was benefited by the bond.  
98.54% chance that Prowl has been a detriment to Jazz. 

“ _You see? The numbers don’t lie. Bonding was a mistake and even Jazz knew that,_ ” the disembodied voice said smoothly. “ _And you know what else? When Jazz dies you’re going to snap and take most of this base out with you._ ”

“Shut. Up,” Prowl grit out, his hands coming up to cover his audios to block out the voice that only he could hear. A voice that was sounding more and more like Jazz at every moment.

_99.58% chance that you’re gonna kill ‘em all, lover.  
98.97% chance that you’re gonna destroy Iacon in the process._

_“You’re gonna snap and there’s a 98.37 percent chance that you’re gonna accomplish what the Decepticons never could. You’re gonna hand this war to ‘em and you’re gonna kill everyone!”_

“ _ **SHUT UP!**_ ” Prowl shrieked, falling to his knees in the middle of the room, his processor finally seizing up in a backwash of illogical data. “Shut the frag up!”

He suddenly looked up at the drawer of his desk where the recharge coding stick was kept. It had been ignored for most of a solar and gathering dust, but there was a good chance that a forced recharge would shut the voice up.

“ _Yeah, that might work. Who knows, maybe you’ll be able to stop the numbers from hauntin’ ya. Or maybe you’ll lose yourself to th’ new programming. End up an addict who can’t recharge at all without the stick._ ”

Prowl’s lips thinned to an angry line. Clearly, he was hallucinating from lack of recharge and the loss of his bond mate. The stress was finally getting the better of him; it was time to give in to the only logical option left open to him. 

Taking the data stick in hand, Prowl lay back on the berth. With a soft sigh, he brought it up to the join between his neck and helm and pressed the device to the port there. He felt the new program start to move through his system and in a few moments his hand slipped away from his neck as he fell into a deep recharge.

\---

Prowl came online to the feeling of warmth against his back and he tightened his grip on the arms holding him close.

“Mornin’ lover,” Jazz said softly as he kissed the back of Prowl’s helm. “I was just debatin’ on waking you up.”

Prowl pressed back into his mate, a small pleased sound escaping his vocalizer.

“But I just couldn’t go off on my mission without sayin’ goodbye properly.” Jazz sat up and rolled Prowl to his back before sweeping in for a deep, hungry kiss.

Prowl offlined his optics, his hands roaming over his mate’s body with a feverish need. His fingers dipped into transformation seams he knew better than his own as he arched up into the body pressing him into the berth. Spark energy passed like lightning between them, and soon the room was filled with the smell of ozone and heated metal, the air nothing but moans and gasps and purrs of appreciation and lust. At some point, they switched places, and Prowl gazed down at his mate with undisguised love.. It was a look that no one else saw. When they were surrounded by other Autobots and bogged down by duty, Prowl reverted to the logical automaton persona he projected to the rest of the world. Only in here, when it was just Jazz and Prowl, did he let the walls come down and the emotions run free.

“Primus … I love you,” Prowl whispered before sweeping in to capture Jazz’s mouth in a searing kiss.

A heavy knock on the door sounded and Prowl growled softly at the interruption, determined to ignore whoever it was.

“Prowl? Please come to the door. We need to speak.” Optimus Prime sounded wrong, somehow. There was a sadness there that went beyond the normal vague melancholy that seemed to always lace his voice.

Again the tactician ignored the call, even when it was followed by another knock and a call button’s chime.

“Ya need t’ get that, Prowler,” Jazz murmured between kisses.

“He can wait.” Prowl’s reply was more of a snarl than anything else. “He will _not_ take this moment from me.”

Jazz took Prowl’s hands in his and kissed his fingertips with delicate, controlled passion.

“It’s too late fer that. You _need_ t’ talk to ‘im.”

Prowl offlined his optics and stilled his hands. Leaning in, he pressed his forehead to Jazz’s as he fought the shudder of fear that threatened to shake him apart.

“Prowl?” Prime’s voice was stronger, sounding now as if he was in the room.

“Just give me one more breem. Please. Just one more.” Prowl knew he was begging but didn’t care. On some level he knew what would come next and he didn’t want to face it.

“Prowl!”

The tactician started as a large hand came down on his shoulder. He was alone on the berth with Prime crouched down at his side, optics full of concern.

“Prowl, I’m sorry for entering without invitation but I need to speak with you,” Prime said softly, his hand never leaving Prowl’s shoulder.

“What is it, Prime?” Prowl’s voice sounded dead to his audios. He never looked up at his Commander. He didn’t need to ask. He knew what was coming next. 

\---

The cycles after Jazz’s capture were a blur in Prowl’s memory. There had been a frantic search, a desperate attempt to get him back, and all the while there were those looks. Pity. Concern. Worry. Irritation.

It was the last that got to him the most. He heard whispered accusations: he wasn’t trying hard enough, wasn’t displaying the proper emotions. It was all that he could do to not to lose his tight grip on control and outright attack those accusing him. It was a battle he fought with every revolution of his engine, with every fibre of his being.

“Hey Prowl. How’s it going?”

Prowl looked up from his data pad and bit back a sarcastic response to Smokescreen’s innocent question.

“It goes fine.” The response was tight and dismissive, but the psychologist-in-training didn’t seem to take the hint.

“I thought you might want to talk to someone,” Smokescreen said as he entered the office proper and leaned against a guest chair in a silent request to sit. “You know, you might want to vent.”

“I do not need to vent, thank you,” Prowl snapped. “If you will please excuse me, I have far too much work to complete.”

Smokescreen sighed and took the seat, ignoring the clear dismissal.

“Prowl, I’m a Praxian, remember? I know how to read the door wing code,” he said gently as he motioned to Prowl’s doors. “And I know that you need to talk about this. It’s not healthy to keep something this big bottled up inside.

Prowl looked up, clearly surprised to discover that his doors were bobbing and twitching in an expressive rhythm. As soon as he acknowledged this, the doors froze.

“There is nothing I wish to discuss,” Prowl said with finality, brushing the memory firmly away.

Smokescreen’s concerned face blurred as the room seemed to dissipate into mist. The last thing Prowl saw was a black and white figure standing in the corner shaking its head in disappointment.

“ _Ya need t’ face this._ ”

\---

“He’s back.” Prowl’s words were a strangled whisper as he fought back a sob.

Prime was only just fast enough to catch the tactician before he sank to the floor.

“He is, but he isn’t well. He’s in surgery right now but Ratchet has said that-”

“I need to see him!” the tactician snapped, cutting Prime off and pulling away violently. “I need to-”

This time it was Prowl who was cut off as Prime tightened his grip on the Praxian’s arms, pulling him close.

“He’s in surgery. You can see him when they’re done. He’s in the best possible hands, Prowl – _Prowl_.”

Prowl looked up sharply at the sudden change in Prime's voice and found himself facing a massive Insecticon, far larger than any of their kind had any right to be. As Prowl pulled away from the thing masquerading as his commanding officer, he found himself trapped in a vice-like grip and pulled close against Bombshell’s now massive body.

“Going so soon- _soon_? Come now, Prowler, don't you want to see what Jazz has planned for you?”

Prowl felt his spark lurch and twist in response to the proximity of this monster.

“Ah, and there you go-go,” the Insecticon said with an evil chuckle. “You feel the bond breaking, don't you? You feel him pulling away- _away_.”

“No,” Prowl growled. “Get away from me ... from _us_!”

Again that chuckle filled the air and Bombshell took hold of Prowl's doors in a move that mimicked one used by Jazz.

“He's told me everything- _everything_ ,” the Insecticon hissed. “And he's done with you. He's moved on and now I think it's time you did too.”

Bombshell’s hands tightened around Prowl's doors, In one vicious move, he yanked them off 

A scream of pain and anguish ripped from Prowl’s vocalizer as he was sent sprawling to the ground in a heap.

“Your fear is delicious- _delicious_ ,” Bombshell whispered, a low chuckle sending horrible vibrations through the room and into the broken mech at his feet.

Prowl looked up and through desperately cycling optics he saw Prime's hand reaching for his very spark ...

\---

Prowl came online with a scream, pulling away from the dark figure looming over him.

“It’s okay, Prowl.” The voice was one he vaguely recognized, but his recharge and panic hazed processor refused to place it.

A hand came down heavily on his shoulder, and his panic bloomed into a whirlwind. Without thinking he struck out, hands making contact with the heavily plated armour of a larger mech.

“Ow! Fraggit, Prowl! Stop!”

Thick arms closed around him from behind as large hands closed over his wrists in a painfully tight grip. In an instant he was pinned to a broad chest and he became aware of the irritated growl passing from his captor through to his own back and doors.

“We’re not gonna hurt you, Prowl. Just calm down, okay?”

Prowl cycled his optics and his captor came into view, coalescing out of a blur of red.

“If I let you go you promise you’ll calm the frag down? … Sir,” the mech behind him grit out, the title added as an obvious afterthought.

“Sunstreaker? Sideswipe?” Prowl asked, confusion warring with the indignity of the situation. “What are you doing in here? How the frag did you get in?!”

Sideswipe smiled at the tactician and placed a comforting hand on his arm. “We were in the area and heard the ruckus. Figured it wouldn’t hurt to come in and check up on you.”

Sunstreaker released his potential death grip on Prowl and came to stand in the Praxian’s line of sight.

“After all,” the golden front liner continued where his brother left off, “we’re the only ones on this base who get what you’re going through and aren’t gonna hit you with the idiotic platitudes. As for getting’ in? Your door was unlocked.”

“I-” Prowl’s voice stuttered out as a wave of emotion hit him. His pride wouldn’t allow him to accept help from anyone, let alone these two. But at the same time, they were right. If there was anyone who could even begin to understand what losing a bond mate was like, it was these spark-twins.

Sideswipe squeezed Prowl’s arm again and stepped in closer. “Prowl, seriously, it’s okay. I know the two of us have a reputation, but we know how to keep our mouths shut. This doesn’t have to leave this room.”

Prowl pulled back sharply. His optics narrowed angrily. “Are you threatening me?” he demanded. 

Sideswipe barely supressed a bark of laughter. “What? No, of course not! Primus, no! Honestly, Prowl, what do you take us for?”

Prowl’s optics flashed and he opened his mouth to spit back a retort. But Sideswipe interrupted him with a raised his hand, just as his brother huffed in irritation.

“No we’re not threatening you at all. All I meant was that you can talk to us without all the pity and the pointed looks. I’m sure the others don’t realize they’ve got that _look_ on their faces, like they think like you’re gonna fall apart at any second. It gets real old real fast. Oh, and the ‘Primus never hands you something you can’t handle’ line. I fragging _hate_ that slagging line.” The red mech’s hands tightened to fists, as if in remembered pain and irritation.

Sunstreaker placed his hand on his twin’s arm in silent support before turning back to the 2IC. 

“We’ve never been through what you’re going through now,” Sunstreaker said in a low voice, “but we’ve nearly lost each other more times than either of us wanna remember. Trust us, we know what you’re going through and we get it. It’s like you’re holdin’ on to sanity with your fingertips and everything that hits you just pushed you closer to the edge.” This last was said with the haunted look of a mech who spoke from far too much personal experience.

Prowl pulled back, optics dark and lips thinned to a slash of irritation. But his doors spoke volumes, twitching and quivering even as he tried to keep them silent. There was no way he was going to let his guard down. Especially not to these two, who were far more likely to use any confessions made against him than they were to offer actual help.

“ _Let them help,_ ” a softly accented voice said in the back of his processor.

“Jazz?” Prowl whispered before he could stop himself.

“It’s okay, Prowl - we’re here and we understand. We really do,” Sideswipe said softly. “Just trust us. We’re here for you.”

The red twin wrapped his arms around Prowl, and the tactician felt Sunstreaker press up against his back. Together the two allowed a soft wave of platonic spark energy to flow into the tactician. Instantly, Prowl stiffened between them. But they simply increased their grip around him.

“Trust us,” Sideswipe whispered. “It’s okay to let it go. Primus knows, we know how hard it is to keep it all in when your bonded is on the line.”

Prowl remained as stiff as a girder between the twins, refusing to be moved by the flow of comforting energy they were sending into him. But the frontliners were not about to be dissuaded. They had spent far too many nights with nothing but worry for their bonded, and knew that they would have spent those hours far easier had they had someone to talk to. 

To really talk to. This being so, they opened their sparks to Prowl and did what they could to envelope him in warmth, comfort, and understanding.

“ _You **need** to let them help, Prowl. Please. You **need** to keep it together and you **know **that they can help.****_ ”

Prowl’s pride kept him upright for a moment longer before he finally collapsed under the strain of the last year. A sob broke free as his fingers curled around the edges of Sideswipe’s armour and a shiver racked his frame.

“… I can’t …,” he whispered as he collapsed into the Twins’ arms.

“Go ahead and let it out,” Sunstreaker said, revving his engine gently as he sent a quiet pulse of spark energy into the tactician. “I ain’t gonna lie, it’s not gonna make you feel better, but sometimes letting it out helps. Stops it from hurting quite so bad.”

Sideswipe pulled away slightly and took hold of Prowl’s hands, pulling him toward the berth.

“Come on and lie down. You need to let it out and if you’re anything like us you’re gonna be exhausted by the time you’re done.”

“I’m not like you,” Prowl muttered, but there was no conviction in his words and he allowed the twins to guide him to the berth.

“No, you aren’t” Sideswipe agreed. “But we know the situation. We know it way too intimately.” He looked Prowl in the optics. The tactician saw only bare honesty and vulnerability written on his face.

Sunstreaker sat at Prowl’s back, pulling him close with a gentle touch that was in sharp contrast with the raw power he knew was in those arms. Sideswipe sat and faced Prowl, his hands coming up to gently brush the tactician’s arms in a soothing caress.

“When it’s one of us in medical, when it looks like there’s a damned good chance that one of us is gonna offline and even Ratchet’s gone all quiet … when it gets _like that_ it’s always easier to just close off and put up a wall,” the red twin said softly, optics never leaving Prowl’s face. “It’s either that, or we snap and take out the first mech who says the wrong thing. And when it gets like that, the wrong thing can be anything – anything at all.”

“I remember one time it was Siders who’d been hurt,” Sunstreaker said, his voice hollow with obvious memory. “We got separated from our unit and ended up in enemy territory. We had to fight our way back. And then this trine of Seekers showed up and they dropped acid rain on us.”

Sunstreaker’s gaze lost some of its focus and the spark energy stuttered slightly with the remembered pain of the event. “I had exposed damage on my chest, and this idiot threw himself over me to keep my circuits shielded. By the time the Bots got to us and we got back to the medical unit Sides was in hibernation. To keep his core safe from all the damage. The medics never said it but it was obvious they expected him to offline and me to follow.”

Prowl offlined his optics as he brought up the memory. “I remember that. You were sent to the brig for an unprovoked attack on Warpath. You sent him to medical with a severely damaged turret.”

“It wasn’t unprovoked,” Sunstreaker said bitterly. “He asked me if I was okay. It was such a stupid question that I just flipped out.”

“Another time, it was Sunny in there,” Sideswipe said as he began to send a light but steady flow of comforting energy into Prowl, matching the stream that came from his brother. “I nearly snapped when Neuron came to tell me I’d been volunteered into therapy sessions.”

Sunstreaker shuddered behind Prowl, as the spark energy became laced with a hint of worry. It was no secret that the head of Psychological Operations made the twins nervous.

“I’m surprised she came herself.” Prowl’s tone was as relaxed as anyone would have heard in a long time as he allowed the Twins for comfort him with their words and their sparks.

Sunstreaker let out a derisive snort. “We weren’t. She’s way too fascinated by us. Every time she looks at us I feel like she’s dissecting us. Folks say that we’re too much like Decepticons, but her? I know we shouldn’t speak badly about an officer - especially in this company - but she really creeps me the frag out.”

Prowl couldn’t help the shudder. He had to admit that there was something disconcerting about the psychologist. But he wasn’t about to voice his feelings. After all, she had passed all of Red Alerts screenings and had been thoroughly vetted.

Sideswipe shared a knowing look with his brother, but didn’t comment on Prowl’s reaction. Instead, he continued with his story.

“I would have hauled off and hit her, and likely would have had my aft handed to me. But Bluestreak talked me down. … That’s another mech you can talk to. Yeah, he’s not bonded, but if anyone knows what it’s like to lose everything, then it’s him.”

Prowl’s optics narrowed, and his stiffened between the twins. “I’m a Praxian too, in case you’ve forgotten,” he said sharply.

Sideswipe increased his spark energy, stroking at Prowl’s field gently. “Yeah, you are. But no offense, Sir, you weren’t there. You and that other Praxian … Smokescreen, I think? You two had already moved on. Neither of you were _there_ when the city was destroyed. Blue was. We were the ones who pulled him down from his little nest when we got to Praxus. You didn’t see the look in his optics … Trust me, that mech is intimately familiar with what it’s like to lose everything.”

Prowl looked down at his hands as they rested against Sideswipe’s armour. “I read the reports,” he said simply. As he spoke, Sunstreaker’s hands came about the 2IC’s waist, pulling him into a closer and more comfortable position. “… why are you doing this? And don’t say it’s because you understand what I’m going through. Neither of you have been this altruistic in the past.”

Sunstreaker stiffened slightly behind Prowl. “Yeah - well - maybe we are getting something out of this.” His tone had become guarded and closed. It was as if he was now anticipating an attack at any second.

“Yeah,” Sideswipe said. “We’re getting a lot out of this. We know you and we’re getting a feel for what we can and can’t do with you in charge. If you lose your mind or offline permanently, we have no idea what we’ll get next as a CO. You may have the rulebook shoved up your aft, but at least we know that you won’t give up on us. We can’t say the same for another commander. Primus knows, we’ve been through too many who refuse to let us get even halfway as far as you have.”

“Now, if you’re done thinkin’ the worst of us, are you going t’ let us help you out? Because, honestly? I don’t relish the idea of tellin’ Jazz that we let you slip away when he gets back. And we _will_ get him back.” Sunstreaker’s determined tone carried through to the spark energy he was still sending Prowl, and the 2IC shuddered in response.

The last bit of fight left Prowl. He leaned his head against Sideswipe’s chest as a small, barely contained sob escaped.

“I have to keep it together for Jazz’s sake,” he whispered. “I can’t lose myself to grief, because then he will have nothing to come back to.” 

His voice was so low that the Twins had to raise their audio sensitivity to hear it. “We’re barely holding on as it is. Magnus needs back-up, and the city outside is on the brink of burning. We can’t lose the Prime _and_ the Second-In-Command. For all we know, that’s exactly what the Decepticons were hoping for in this.”

“You’re overthinking,” Sideswipe said gently. “For all you know, their plan was to take you out, knowing that all this would turn you into nothing better than an automaton.”

“I am _not_ an automaton,” Prowl snapped, but there was a desperate edge in his tone, as though he were trying to convince himself of that fact.

“Yeah, we know that,” Sunstreaker replied. “But you’re damn well acting like it most of the time. Look, we get that you don’t want to show any weakness out there. But you’re not out there!”

“Yeah, you’re in here and we’re the only ones who’ll know anything,” Sideswipe said sharply. “And before you come up with another excuse not to tell us anything, we’re not gonna let you just shut down in here!”

Sideswipe’s hands closed over Prowl’s arms, holding him still in an iron grip. He sent a sharp pulse of platonic energy into the 2IC’s spark. With it, he opened himself - so that Prowl could see that he wasn’t hiding any secret plots or manipulations.

Prowl gasped, leaning into the frontliner as his brother mirrored the pulse.

“You need to let go and let yourself mourn,” Sunstreaker said. “You can be an aft out there, but you need to let your defenses down in here. You’re gonna fall apart and it’ll be at the worst possible moment. You know that just as well as we do.”

Prowl shuddered between them and fought to keep control.

“ _You **need** to let them help you._ ”

Prowl felt that part of his spark which was Jazz reach out for the twins as they wrapped him in comfort and understanding. Finally, his defenses shattered, he collapsed into Sideswipe, sobs wracking his body as he finally let the dam break.

The twins held him close and let him mourn and let go of his emotions, soothing him with their spark energy and presence. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Prowl relaxed between them.

“ _What do you know?_ ” Sunstreaker said to his brother through the bond. “ _He’s not the automaton he pretends to be._ ”

“ _Give him a break, Sunny. With this base full of rejects he’s gotta be a tightaft to keep the rest of them in line._ ”

With that, Sideswipe pulled away. Then he helped his brother arrange Prowl on the berth. The red twin’s look softened as he reached out to brush his hand over the Praxian’s helm.

“ _He looks young now that he’s finally relaxed. I keep forgetting that he’s probably no older than we are._ ”

Sunstreaker crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the desk, his look darkening.

“ _He’s not gonna make it if we lose Jazz is he? I mean, he’s probably stubborn enough to not follow, but he’s not going to survive it, is he?_ ”

Sideswipe took one last look down at Prowl before turning to his brother and pulling him into a hug.

“ _I dunno. Probably not,_ ” he said softly. “ _I guess we’ll just have to hope for the best, and then be there to catch him when the worst happens. … and maybe bring Bluestreak into it. Between the three of us, I’m sure we’ll figure something out._ ”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always many multitudes of thanks go out to ayngelcat and spectrumphoenix for support and beta work!

“We need to ensure that this base is kept safe and secure. If that means inconveniencing the Neutrals living in the city, then so be it!” Red Alert snapped as he and Ironhide walked down the halls of the living areas.

Ironhide rolled his optics at the Security Director’s insistence on chasing the same old subject.

“Ah swear Red, yer actin’ like a turbo-fox gnawin’ on a leg-strut. Prowl and Magnus were clear so we’ve gotta take a new angle on this. Wearin’ away at th’ issue ain’t gonna change a damned thing.”

“I _know_ that I am right on this, Ironhide. You make it sound as if I’m obsessing over it, but the facts are clear. This is precisely the kind of chaos the Decepticons thrive in. And the good of the whole outweighs the rights of the individuals in this case. Especially if this small inconvenience helps to keep them alive!”

Ironhide raised his hands in surrender and turned to face Red Alert. “Hey look mech, yer preachin’ t’ the converted here. I get the issue and I agree with you. But this ain’t the way t’ go about dealin’ with it. We need to try a different tack here, Red.”

Red Alert crossed his arms over his chest and let out a huff of irritation. “Then what precisely do you suggest we do? Ignore the issue and hope it goes away like Prowl and Ultra Magnus …” His voice trailed off and his attention went elsewhere. 

Ironhide turned to look in the direction Red Alert was glaring. There, sneaking out of Prowl’s quarters, were Sunstreaker and Sideswipe, both looking far too smug by half.

“Mind explainin’ what you boys think your doin’?” Ironhide asked as he strolled over to the Twins.

For an instant the front-liners looked guilty but then Sunstreaker’s look darkened just as Sideswipe’s face split into a salesman’s grin.

“Just checkin’ up on Prowler, Boss,” the red twin said casually.

Red Alert’s optics narrowed and his horns lit in a staccato pulse. “Yeah, right. If you think for even one second that I-”

“How’s he doin’?” Ironhide asked, interrupting before Red Alert could complete his accusation.

The twins exchanged a slightly confused look, clearly not anticipating Ironhide’s reaction.

“Uhm … he’s best as can be expected I guess,” Sideswipe said carefully. “He’s recharging.”

Ironhide nodded. “Good. I’m sure he needs it.”

“And I suppose you two helped him, did you?” Red Alert asked, making no attempt to hide his anger.

“Well, yeah, but-”

“That is completely inappropriate!” the Security Director snapped, cutting off Sideswipe mid-explanation. “But I suppose that I shouldn’t expect anything else from-”

Again, Ironhide cut Red Alert off mid rant, this time with a raised hand as he stepped between the Security Director and the Twins.

“Okay, that’s enough of that. You boys get back to whatever you were plannin’ on doin’. And thank you both fer helpin’ Prowl out. We all need t’ look out for him, especially now, seein’ as he’s especially in need.” 

The red security mech looked pointedly at the twins, the unsaid comment clear in his gaze. The twins were the most likely to empathize with Prowl’s situation, but if they added in any way to his pain, Ironhide would rake them over the smelting pits personally.

“Yes sir,” the twins said in tandem, before turning and heading down the hall, away from the Officers’ Quarters.

As soon as they were out of range, Red Alert turned on Ironhide, forcing him against the wall with a dull thud.

“What the frag was that?” he growled. “It’s clear what was going on there. You’re just letting them get away with it? Letting _Prowl_ get away with it? Jazz is still out there for Primus’ sake!”

Ironhide’s optics darkened to an angry cobalt. “You had better not be suggestin’ what it sounds like, Red.”

“Of course I’m-”

Now it was Ironhide who menaced the Security Director with his bulk. “Because if you were accusing Prowl of some impropriety I’d be forced t’ remind you of just _who_ it is that yer accusin’. There ain’t no way that Prowl’d do anythin’ and regardless of what ya might like t’ believe.”

Red Alert was forced back. His spoiler hit the opposite wall and he let out a small squeak of surprise, his horns sparking momentarily. “Even those two ain’t gonna take advantage of a strained bond. Ah trust I’m makin’ myself clear, Red” Ironhide growled, resisting Red Alert’s hands which pressed against his chest in an attempt to prevent forward momentum.

“I … yes, of course,” the red and white mech said in a whisper, his optics darting about looking for an escape.

Ironhide’s optics narrowed. Then they softened. He reached out to take Red Alert’s chin in hand, turning the Security Director’s head to face him. This time his touch was firm but gentle, his optics holding nothing but concern.

“What is wrong with you, Red? It ain’t like you t’ fly off the handle like this.”

Red Alert tried to pull away but with Ironhide so close, he had nowhere to go.

“I’m fine,” he snapped, looking away from the other mech sullenly as his horns flashed with a staccato light.

“Smelter slag,” Ironhide said, but there was no ire in his tone. “When was th’ last time you recharged? Or refuelled properly? Have you even been runnin’ yer defrags and scans?”

Red Alert pulled his head away roughly. “Of course I have! I may be busy but I do _not_ ignore my own well-being! Who do you take me for?!”

“Red,” Ironhide said warningly, not in the slightest bit impressed by the outburst. “Have you been recharging? Yer actin’ paranoid an’ this ain’t like you. Frankly, you’ve got me worried.” 

“I- …” The Security Director seemed as if he was going to continue his protest, but under Ironhide’s scrutiny he wilted. “I’ve been busy. I have run my scans and all my defrags, but I’ve been running them while I work. I know I shouldn’t but I _need_ to be at work. If I were to miss something, if something slips past us …” He broke off with a shake of his head.

Ironhide’s look softened to one of compassion and understanding as he stepped back. “Aw Red, ya know you’ve got back up, right? Our teams are top o’ the line. We wouldn’t’ve chosen ‘em otherwise. An’ even if that weren’t the case, you’ve got me backin’ you up.”

“Yeah, I know. But I also know that the Decepticons are just waiting for our guard to drop. This is exactly the type of situation they thrive on, and the more I think about it the more I can’t _stop_ thinking about it.”

“Red, this ain’t healthy. Come on, we can go see Ratchet on the down low. I’m sure he can offer somethin’ t’ help out. Discretely, I mean.”

Red Alert’s horns suddenly flashed and a look of pure panic came over his face. “No! No medics! I’m fine. Ratchet would have to talk about this to Neuron. The regulations are clear on that!”

Reaching out, Ironhide squeezed the Security Director’s arm gently. “Okay, Red, okay. No medics. Just … Look, just why don’t you talk t’ me if things get worse? After all, if one of us goes down fer any reason at all … well we both know that Prowl an’ Magnus mean well but neither of ‘em understand the intricacies of our security.”

Red Alert was silent for a long moment before finally nodding. “Okay. Yeah, I will.”

Ironhide wasn’t convinced by the response, but he was willing to accept it for the moment and vowed to keep a closer watch on his friend and colleague. Smiling, he slung a companionable arm over the other mech’s shoulder, ignoring how Red Alert stiffened briefly before relaxing into the touch.

“Come on Red. Let’s get t’ the Security office an’ see if we can’t come up with a better response t’ all this than what the command staff are suggestin’,” he said lightly as he led the other mech away from the Senior Staff quarters.

The Security Director made a huffing sound – that’s better “I do believe that we will have no difficulty coming up with a better plan than ignoring the issue and hoping it goes away.”

Ironhide chuckled softly. “Not quite what they’re doin’ but I get where yer comin’ from.”

\---

Ironhide glared at the screens in the security office, as if he could change the reports through force of will alone.

“Incidents of civil unrest up by seventy-five percent, including both verbal and physical assaults on security officers; several dozen cases of looting after a small riot in the lower city; two instances of vampiric cannibalism,” Red Alert growled. “With all this going on how can you still agree with Ultra Magnus? It is clear that we need a complete and total lock-down enforced on the city!”

Ironhide crossed his arms over his chest and huffed in irritation. “That ain’t gonna help anythin’ Red. I don’t like what’s goin’ on down there, but if we respond with force we’re just gonna confirm that somethin’s wrong an’ th’ public’s gonna panic even more than they already are. There’s gotta me a more subtle way we can go about dealin’ with this!”

“I’m all for subtlety, but we are way past that point now! The city is a powder keg and we _need_ to do something to defuse the situation!” Red Alert snapped.

Ironhide bit back a growl of irritation. “And if this is all part o’ some elaborate ‘Con plan? What then? We’d be tippin’ our hand if we declare an all-out emergency!”

“And if their plan is nothing more than sowing chaos?” Red Alert asked. “What then? We need to do _something_! Anything is better than us just sitting here waiting for the Decepticons to make their move!”

“I am _not_ suggestin’ we do nothin’ Red! Neither is Magnus, fer Primus’ sake!” This time Ironhide made no attempt to bite back the growl. This same old argument had gone on for more than long enough and he was reaching the end of his patience. “An’ I ain’t sayin’ we shouldn’t have more of a presence down there. But full out martial law? Harshly enforced curfews? What’s that gonna accomplish other than stretchin’ out our defenses and fillin’ up our brigs?”

Red Alert slammed his hands down on the central console. “Fine! Then what do you suggest? Because I am not hearing anything other than a constant litany of negatives to every one of my suggestions!”

Ironhide fought back the urge to snap back in reply that Red Alert only had one suggestion that he kept bringing up. But they were both on edge and running on fumes and exhaustion; further arguments wouldn’t accomplish anything, would just serve to fray an already strained working relationship.

“Look … we’re goin’ in circles here. We can agree that th’ ‘Cons are doin’ this to destabilize us an’ keep us from findin’ the actual attack, right? Can we at least agree t’ that?”

“Yes, but I don’t see how-”

Ironhide raised his hand to gently cut off Red Alert’s protest. “Okay, so if we agree that one way or another they’re tryin’ t’ destabilize us, then we need t’ out think ‘em. Out-manoeuvre ‘em. If we were to increase the security in th’ lower city just enough t’ be in response t’ all this,” Ironhide motioned to the monitors, “then we could keep a closer optic on everythin’ and we’d have th’ troops in place should the slag really heat up.”

Red Alert pursed his lips and ran the suggestion through his battle computer before slowly nodding. “Okay, so we get a few more optics down there. But that isn’t going to keep the public off the streets. They’re already panicked, and if Mirage’s report is to be believed then the populace already knows that we’ve been compromised.”

Ironhide shook his head in irritation. “No! I know where this is going and I will not be dragged back onto this same old track!”

“Let me finish!” the Security Director barked, his horns flashing angrily. “I was going to suggest that we institute a limited curfew and claim that it’s in response to the fuel shortages. We can institute it by zone, that way we can move our troops as required and not overtax our already limited resources.”

Ironhide was silent for a long moment. There was a soft hissing as he cycled his vents trying to calm down. All the stress and the gravity of the entire situation were getting to him and he was far too close to snapping. They both were.

“So you don’t agree?” Red Alert said as he leaned against a console. “Well what a surprise…”

“No, I do agree,” Ironhide replied. “Idea’s got potential. We should be able t’ pitch it right t’ Prowl an’ Magnus,” 

“Oh.” The response was flat and tired, but underneath there was a hint of relief.

Ironhide scrubbed at his faceplates with his hands. “We are both far too exhausted to be dealing with this. We need to stop goin’ after each other and try t’ take this all slower.”

The Security Director huffed with mounting irritation and crossed his arms over his chest. “Take this slower? That’s a disaster waiting to happen and you know it.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But whatever. I do agree that we need to stop attacking each other. We have the potential for more than enough enemies behind our lines as it is, without making one another into one.”

“Enemies?” Ironhide asked optics narrowing slightly. “You mean the report we got from Mirage? We need t’ take that one carefully. After all there could be real logical reasons for how the populace got wind of what happened. I mean, Jazz wasn’t exactly quiet when he lit outta here.”

“And it’s just as likely that we have a spy in our ranks,” Red Alert replied, his tone level and his entire demeanour much calmer than Ironhide would have expected. “Look, our Special Ops team are one of the best we’ve ever had. Of them, Jazz is the absolute best. And yet, he was taken in a mission that had a less than five per cent failure probability rate. Even at the time, we were forced to acknowledge that he might have been betrayed.”

“Yeah -, and the ensuin’ investigation didn’t turn up anythin’ at all,” Ironhide said, a trifle more sharply than he probably should have.

“Lack of evidence does not show evidence of lack.” Red Alert came forward and leaned forward over the central console. “The fact is that the last time we lost any of our Special Operations officers, it was an inside job.”

“And?” Ironhide prompted, irritation rising. “The slagger who sold us out ended up on the receivin’ end of Megatron’s cannon. There weren’t no other inside mechs there!”

“Weren’t there?” Red Alert asked pointedly. “The Combaticons were involved and I know that-” 

Ironhide shook his head and cut the Security Director off. “No! I know where yer headin’ and no. Just no. The Batties are in a ‘Con mind prison. There are no more Combaticons out there. And Smokescreen ain’t no double agent!”

“How do you know? Are you really willing to risk all our lives because you have a soft spot for the mech?” Red Alert demanded. “He was a member of their team. His past is more than shady enough. Pit! I don’t think that any of us have even _managed_ to successfully run a proper background check on him!”

“There are a lot of mechs in this army with shady pasts and spotty records, Red,” Ironhide countered. “But even if that wasn’t th’ case, Smokescreen ain’t no spy. All them reasons you just listed? They all make him way too obvious. The Cons would be idiots t’ use him as a spy.”

Red Alert pursed his lips, clearly considering the new information. “Okay. Fine. I’ll grant you that he’s obvious. And I’ll also grant that there’s no point getting into the ‘they know that so they will’ circular argument. But I’m still not convinced that some mech isn’t working against us here. There has to be someone who would gain from all this.”

It was clear from his tone that the Security Director was not convinced of Smokescreen’s innocence, but he was at least willing to look elsewhere until he found proof of the psychologist’s guilt.

Ironhide moved away from the console. He began to pace the room casually, thinking about the issue. “I dunno. Other than the Cons, what Autobot could possibly gain anythin’ from Jazz goin’ on a rampage?”

“That’s just it, Ironhide, this wasn’t a rampage. It was meticulous and clean.” Red Alert brought up the data at Ironhide’s disbelieving look. 

“Jazz wakes up in Medical and immediately disables a medic and then tries to kill Bumblebee. He makes no attempt to kill Hoist, even though he was clearly still functional and he doesn’t go after any of the other medics or patients,” Red Alert said, pointing to the glowing path mapped out over the base’s floor plan. “Then he sneaks to the command centre. We have no reports that anyone saw him so we know he was making use of his SpecOps skills. He then specifically targets Prowl and Optimus and makes no attempt to take out either you or Ratchet.” 

“He did too attack me!” Ironhide said, indignant.

Red Alert was silent for a moment. When he finally spoke his tone was far more confident as he worked his theory. “Jazz attached you only after you attacked him. He did not initiate that confrontation. In fact, the only confrontations he initiated were the attacks on Bumblebee, Jazz, and Optimus Prime. Yes he fired on you, but he missed, and we both know that he is a good enough shot that he would never have missed at that range. Then when he escaped the bonds you put him in he made no attempt to attack either you or Ratchet. He simply fled. And while he did attack and deactivate several of our security troops, every one of them initiated the conflict.” A recording of Jazz’s escape came up on the monitor, showing the near surgical strike the saboteur made against each of the security guards who engaged him.

Red Alert paused and scrolled through the footage, highlighting several guards and support personnel in Jazz’s path. “There were several civilians in the corridor and he made no attempt to take out any of them. Add to that the fact that Jazz’s speciality is sabotage and demolitions – neither a skill he attempted to use …” he trailed off, as he contemplated more of the data. 

Ironhide looked at the data and at the recordings of Jazz’s escape. As the information sank in his optics widened. “This was a surgical strike, specifically aimed at the command staff and special ops! And I suppose the bond may explain why he hit Prowl in a non-lethal location.”

“Exactly!” Red Alert grinned as his theory was proven correct. “And that means that this was a physical _and_ a psychological attack that required recent intel to accomplish. Remember, in the solar he’s been missing we have not only upgraded security, but we also made changes to the layout of the base.”

“Okay,” Ironhide said slowly. “Okay, so maybe yer not as paranoid as you play it.”

Red Alert shrugged, a smirk forming on his lips. “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you. Now, I suggest that we speak to a professional about this. Psychological Operations would be the place to start if we want to know who would have the most to gain from this chaos.”

“Neuron?” Ironhide asked, stifling a small shudder. “Yeah, I guess yer right.”

\---

Ironhide sat in the chair as directed and tried not to squirm under the gaze of the head of Psychological Operations.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Red Alert said, his optics staring at the wall just to the right of Neuron’s head. “We need to access your expertise, to aid in an issue that has come up.”

Ironhide couldn’t help but notice that the Security Director was far more formal than usual. He was also painfully aware of Neuron’s intense gaze and the silence that filled the room. It was as if she was waiting for more information to be provided.

Finally, after a long moment of scrutiny, Ironhide cleared his vocalizer. “Yeah, we were goin’ through th’ data on Jazz’s attack, an’ frankly it don’t make sense. At first blush it’s all chaos, but when you look at it again, it’s way too meticulous t’ be happenstance.”

“We want your take on it,” Red Alert continued. “It seems to us in order to pull off the attack as it was a certain amount of classified information would be required. Information that Jazz should not have had access to. We suspect that there may be an agent in our ranks. Someone who would have something to gain from this chaos.”

As before, Neuron looked at them both impassively as if waiting for them to finish speaking. Her cream hands were folded neatly on her desk and the visor and mask gave nothing away. Save for the fact that both mechs could hear her engine running, she could have been in recharge for all the reaction she offered.

Ironhide bit back a growl at the obvious psychological game she was playing. He was not about to be intimidated by her, no matter her reputation.

“Well?” he demanded. “What are your thoughts? Any suggestions on how we should proceed? I mean, other than lockin’ everythin’ down and lettin’ your crew interrogate everyone on base?”

Neuron’s optic band glowed slightly as she cocked her head slightly in Ironhide’s direction.

“With the limited information you two have provided,” she began in an almost bored tone, “I am hesitant to confirm your theory. However, if you were to ask me to, then I suppose I might be tempted to agree. There is the potential for a larger plot involved here. However, if you are limiting yourself by looking for those who would gain from this, then you _will_ have to interrogate the entire base.”

“What? How do you figure that?” Red Alert demanded.

The chief of psychological operations levelled her gaze at the Security Director and her optic band brightened slightly as he fought the urge to shrink away.

“You want me to elaborate? Fine then. Let’s start with you, shall we?”

“Me?! How dare you! I am _not_ -”

Neuron interrupted Red Alert with a languidly raised hand. “Yes. You. This attack has given you the excuse you need to lock down this base and this city. You have not exactly been quiet about your desire for martial law, and this opportunity has given you the proof you needed to push the issue.”

“This ain't exactly helpful, Neuron,” Ironhide said, his tone cold and full of warning.

“Oh I don't know,” the psychologist said, wry amusement colouring her words. “I'm finding all of this incredibly helpful. You two are proving to be quite fascinating subjects.”

“Is this all some kind of joke for you?!” Red Alert demanded as he stood up sharply, horns flashing red with his rising anger. The heavy chair rocked as he knocked it back. “If you are not going to aid us in this, then we will take our leave. _Sir_.”

“While I will admit that I find all of this quite amusing, I would not classify it as a joke. Your concerns are quite valid,” Neuron said calmly, completely ignoring the Security Director’s outburst. “No - what I find amusing is that you come to me with questions, yet you dismiss my advice before you have even heard it.”

With that, the psychologist turned back to her monitor. “If that is all, then you are _both_ dismissed.”

“I – What?” Ironhide sputtered. “No, we are not dismissed. Enough with th' theatrics, Neuron! We'll listen t' yer suggstions. But not these baseless accusations!”

“Are they truly baseless? Are you so sure of that?” One optic ridge raised slightly and she leaned forward, imposing herself into the security officers’ space without ever leaving her chair. “Let me lay this out for you. As I already said, Red Alert, you have gained the impetus needed to implement your security changes.” 

She levelled a steady, penetrating gaze at Ironhide. “Through these events you have potentially gained a martyr for the cause. And you _have_ obtained a potent rallying cry for your war against the Decepticons.”

“What? I have done no such thing!” the red mech spat back. “An' the fact that you'd even-”

Neuron continued talking as if Ironhide had never spoken. “Ultra Magnus has risen to leader of the Autobots. Believe me when I say that power can be a powerful motivator.”

“That's hardly fair,” Red Alert said, but he sounded far less convinced than he had before.

“Lastly, there is the possibility that Prowl himself was the inside mech …”

Ironhide’s optics darkened to an angry indigo and he was about to launch into a tirade against the psychologist when Red Alert’s fists slammed down onto Neuron’s desk.

“How _dare_ you?!” the Security Director demanded, his horns flashing erratically. “Prowl is risking losing his **_bondmate_** in this! And he was injured in Jazz’s attack! Just because he wasn’t offlined doesn’t change anything! The fact that you would even _think_ of blaming him, that you would even begin to _**hint**_ that he was involved is obscene!”

Neuron regarded them calmly, refusing to rise to their anger. “Oh yes, he was injured. The damage was, however, astoundingly minor given Jazz’s skill with a firearm in close quarters. Add to that the fact that we have no real proof that the loss of the bond has driven him as far to the edge as it appears. After all,” her voice dropped to a low and menacing purr, “it is no secret that he has refused any and all psychological support since Jazz was taken. And let us not forget, this would not be the first Prime he has seen fall.”

“Oh frag that!” Ironhide snapped. “You are graspin' there. An' yer draggin Prowl's good name through the smeltin' pools!” He stood, violently pushing the chair away.

“Oh, and one last thing before you storm out,” Neuron said conversationally, “ _I_ should also be listed among the potential traitors. After all, imagine the fascinating studies I could perform on Jazz when he is returned? Not to mention on Prowl and on the base in general. It’s not often that one gets to see mass hysteria in action quite like this.” She paused and tapped one thick finger against her battle mask. “Actually, now that I think of it, I may run those studies anyways. It should prove quite enlightening.”

Red Alert's lips thinned into a hard angry line. “Yeah, we'll keep that in mind,” he spat before turning and storming out of the office, Ironhide on his heels.

As the door closed Neuron turned to her systems and entered in her notes on the conversation, taking careful note of both the words and the intonation of them.

“This is turning out far more interesting than I could have ever anticipated,” she murmured as she completed her notations.


	12. Chapter 12

Ultra Magnus approached Prowl’s door with trepidation. Yes, the 2IC had made it clear that he wanted to be there when the Matrix was inherited but at the same time, it was obvious from his inactivity that he was getting some much needed recharge. It was tempting to just turn around and get on with business on his own, but Magnus knew Prowl would never forgive him if he did.

“Prowl,” he said quietly as he pressed the call button. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but it’s time.”

After a long moment, the door opened revealing a worn, and slightly shaky, Prowl. The tactician’s doors were twitching slightly and there were the faint hints of red scuffed over his chest.

“Prowl? Are you all right?” Ultra Magnus asked before he could stop himself.

Prowl’s doors twitched, but his optics remained impassive and calm.

“I am fine, thank you for inquiring,” Prowl replied mechanically, but the small smile that pulled at the edges of his mouth softened the response.

Ultra Magnus nodded slowly. He knew the Praxian well enough to know that he wouldn’t talk if prodded. He just had to come out with it in his own time and in his own way. His own advice fled from his processor as he saw the faint yellow scrapes on Prowl's back and doors.

“Uhm ... Prowl? I don't want to prod, but what's going on?” he asked cautiously as he motioned to Prowl's back.

“What?” the 2IC asked, twisting slightly in an attempt to catch his reflection in a nearby console. “... damn it ... I swear I am going to murder them,” he growled as he saw the scrapes.

“Okay?” Magnus replied hesitantly. “This doesn’t sound at all good, Prowl. Do I need to put in an order for someone’s arrest?”

“What?” Prowl stopped examining his back and levelled a confused gaze at Ultra Magnus. “No, no it’s nothing like that. I somehow doubt that the Twins intended any malice here. They came by to check on me. That’s all.”

“I’m sorry Prowl, but that doesn’t sound very much like them. Neither is exactly known for their altruism.”

The Praxian made no attempt to hide his chuckle, and Magnus couldn’t help but be pleased with the sound. It had been far too long since anyone had heard Prowl laugh. The 2IC had not allowed himself the pleasure, nor had he let his guard down enough since Jazz had gone missing. Whatever the Twins had done, it had clearly worked.

“I would not call what they did altruistic, Magnus. But they did help me get some much needed recharge and offered some comfort and perspective. I will, however, be having words with them about leaving their paint on me. It gives the wrong impression and the last thing I need is for people to think that I am being unfaithful. It implies that I have given up, and that is the last thing on my mind.” Prowl’s look darkened at the thought.

Ultra Magnus laid a comforting hand on Prowl’s shoulder. “I doubt that anyone will think that. At least no one who knows you will.”

Prowl arched his chevron slightly, but said nothing about the Commander’s earlier comment or the implications therein. Instead, he motioned in the direction of the med bay.

“Why don’t we deal with the Matrix. My issues are secondary here,” he said, his tone pointed and clear.

“Okay, fine,” Ultra Magnus said, raising his hands in mock defeat. “I’ll drop it. But only after you let me deal with your back. We’ve got enough stress and rumours going on around here without adding to the fire, and we both know what gossip mongers the medical staff can be. I won’t take no for an answer,” he added as Prowl looked about to protest. “It will take all of five breem to clear that up. Hardly enough time to make a difference to the Matrix. After all, it has waited this long.”

Prowl’s lips thinned to a line as he worked to come up with a logical reason for not accepting the help.

“I can make it an order,” Ultra Magnus said, a small smile quirking at the corners of his mouth.

“You do not outrank me yet, Ultra Magnus. But fine. I will accept your aid, if for no other reason than to quash any possible rumours before they start.”

Prowl turned and headed back into his quarters, grabbing the solvent and a cloth from a nearby shelf as soon as he was through the door.

“Thank you for this,” Prowl said quietly as he handed the tools to Ultra Magnus. “It has been a long time since I have had to clean my own back, and I must admit I am woefully out of practice.”

Magnus looked around the room as he accepted the tools. There were signs of Jazz everywhere from the collection of both Cybertronian and galactic music, to the art on the walls. At first glance, there was no hint that Prowl lived here at all. The organization and neatly stored data pads made his influence clear, of course, but it was subtle and — Ultra Magnus had to admit — very Prowl-like. Being here felt almost like an invasion.

“Magnus?” Prowl prompted as he sat in the center of the berth, quickly arranging himself into a straight-backed cross-legged posture.

The commander’s attention returned to the other mech. “Oh, sorry, Prowl. I was just … not paying attention. Never mind.”

He came to sit behind Prowl, perching delicately on the edge of the berth, trying not to get too comfortable. Yes, he had agreed to help Prowl, but he had never intended this to be done on the berth. That made things far too intimate somehow.

He heard Prowl cycle his vents slightly as he further settled into the berth.Ultra Magnus mentally shook his head. This was ridiculous. He was helping a fellow Autobot, nothing more than that. There was nothing inappropriate here. His guilt was entirely unwarranted.

Ultra Magnus applied the solvent to the cloth and started to slowly rub Prowl’s back, nearly fumbling as he felt the Praxian stiffen slightly at the light touch.

“Sorry,” Magnus murmured as he focused on removing a rather stubborn scratch of yellow paint from the center of Prowl’s back.

“It’s fine,” the Praxian replied, visibly relaxing. “It’s just been quite some time since I’ve had someone do this for me.”

Ultra Magnus nodded. He continued to work on Prowl’s back and doors, doing what he could to remove the yellow scuffs. He couldn’t help but notice the built up dirt and grease in Prowl’s hinges, or the fact that the broad doors were only partially waxed. Of course, without any help the Praxian wouldn’t be able to fully reach and he would be loath to ask for help. It was just more proof, just another subtle little sign that the tactician was barely holding himself together

That that knowledge made Ultra Magnus’s spark twist with sympathy. Unfortunately, sympathy only went so far — especially when Prowl’s new door was pressing up into his hand and when the Praxian’s engine seemed to growl in appreciation of the touches. 

Ultra Magnus cleared his vents in a cleansing breath as he willed himself to _not_ react in response. Guilt haunted him as he continued his work. It wasn’t that he was attracted to Prowl. Not really. Toe be sure, the tactician mentally compelling; but even if had things been different he could never imagine a relationship with the mech. So why was there a pulling at his spark? And why was he imagining what it would be like to have those expressive doors pressing into him with more than just the desire to be clean?

“Magnus?” Prowl asked, shifting slightly to look over his shoulder at the other mech. “Are you all right? You seem … off.”

Magnus froze for a moment, before lowering the cloth.

“I’m not entirely sure that I should be doing this,” he said in a low voice, optics averted.

Prowl turned and looked at the field commander. Concern and confusion showed in his face. “What’s the problem?”

“This isn’t right,” Ultra Magnus said carefully. “This is the space you share with Jazz, and I feel as if I’m invading.”

Prowl turned himself around. He took Magnus’s large hands in his own. “Look – last night, the Twins came to me. They helped me realize that there is nothing wrong with either seeking or offering comfort,” he said solemny. “They also reminded me that I cannot shoulder my burdens alone. None of us can. That being said, if you are truly uncomfortable with this, then I understand and I thank you for what you’ve already done. But if this is a case of you pulling away because you feel that it is the proper thing to do, then I’m afraid I cannot accept that.”

Ultra Magnus was quiet for a long time as he contemplated what Prowl had said, running the words over in his processor and reassessing his own feelings in light of the new information.

“You’re right,” he finally said as he shook his head wearily. “You’re right and I think I am far too tired and on edge to be thinking properly. I’m jumping at things that aren’t there and allowing my imagination to run away with me.”

Prowl nodded. “I fully understand that. It has been a long solar for us all and these last few orn especially so.” He seemed to wilt slightly before pulling himself back together.

Ultra Magnus nodded soberly and squeezed Prowl’s hand gently. He was determined to push down his own discomfort and doubts if it would make things even slightly easier for the 2IC. After all, Prowl was being far too strong and without support he was going to buckle under all the pressure.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up and get to med bay,” he said. “We just need to keep focusing on the next step and not worrying about any of the rest of it.”

“Thank you, Magnus.” Prowl’s reply was honest and relieved, sounding as if another weight had been lifted, albeit a small one.

—-

As Ultra Magnus entered the medbay, his optics moved immediately to the still form of Optimus Prime. He was surrounded by machines that ensured his systems continued to function, ensured that his spark continued to pulse. His body was still bright with no signs of the dull grey of deactivation, but it was still disconcerting to see his once powerful form laid bare and headless. Prowl came to stand beside him and looked down at Prime’s body, his hands twitching slightly as if he was fighting the urge to reach out and touch his commander.

The medbay was quiet. There seemed a pressure over the rooms. It was as if everyone had their vents on low, as if the slightest sound would break some kind of spell. The medics moved around the space, going about their duties, only coming near Prime and the Matrix when they absolutely had to. Even then, there was a tension as they worked as quickly as they safely could.

Prowl moved from Prime’s inert form to the Matrix. The mystical relic sat on a nearby table, glowing slightly with a rhythmic pulse that almost seemed hypnotic. It looked as though it were calling out to someone, reaching out tendrils of energy for something just out of range. Prowl felt the energy wash over and through him as it seemed to search for something within him. 

He shivered at the heady sensation and was left gasping and full of something indescribable. Tendrils of power move through his systems. The barest hints of ancient knowledge slipped past his mind leaving him with nothing but unanswerable questions. He was searched. Invaded. Twisted inside out and back again until finally the Matrix pulled away. He had been found to be lacking.

Prowl leaned heavily against the table as he felt all of his energy leave him. It took all his will to remain upright instead of fleeing the room. It was only then that he fully realized why Ratchet wanted the Matrix out of here.

“Oh good, yer here,” Wheeljack said as he entered the bay from the medical office. “You can take _that_ out o’ here. For a while I thought that maybe Ratch’ was exaggerating but ….” He trailed off with a shrug and motioned to the Matrix. “It’s not happy and it’s just– never mind. Look, if we still had The Council it’d be one thing but–”

“It’s okay, Wheeljack,” Ultra Magnus said, gently interrupting the engineer. “I take it that you were able to talk Ratchet into recharging?”

“Y’ could say that,” the engineer replied enigmatically, his headfins flashing in amusement. He then turned to the rest of the staff. “All right, the lot o’ you out. I’ll let ya know when we’re done here.”

The hardened medics fled from the room like they were running from the Unmaker himself. Had the situation been less grave, it might have been funny to see As it was it simply further impressed the gravity of the situation.

“Okay, so what do we do?” Ultra Magnus asked in a soft voice as he looked down at the ancient artifact.

“There used to be a ceremony,” Prowl replied sombrely. “The Council would decide on a new Prime and the Initiate would be required to recite an oath, go through a cleansing ritual, and ….” He trailed off and shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. There’s no need for the ceremony. Not any more. Just take the Matrix and put it in your chest. It will do the rest.”

Ultra Magnus couldn’t help but feel the swell of sympathy at the sad note in Prowl’s voice. The 2IC had been there for the rising of two Primes and now he was potentially facing his third, even if it was only temporary. Losing the pomp and ritual of the ceremony was just one more thing that had been taken from him. He resisted the urge to comfort the tactician and instead turned his attention back to the Matrix. There was a moment of uncertain silence. Then he picked it up gingerly and opened his chest.

There was no fanfare and no theatrics, only the soft beeping of the machines keeping Optimus Prime alive and only Prowl and Wheeljack as witnesses. Ultra Magnus seated the Matrix in his chest, inhaling sharply as the artifact sent tendrils of energy through his system, poking through every part of him as it examined him thoroghly. Time seemed to stretch out as his programming tried to respond to this alien invader, to the Matrix rifling through his systems with merciless intensity. After what felt like an eternity the Matrix finally settled, retracting back into itself. It left only a feeling that it was accepting Ultra Magnus as an interim keeper and not a proper Prime.

Magnus onlined his optics. He found himself sitting on the edge of a medical berth with Prowl and Wheeljack on either side of him.

“What happened? How long was I out?” Ultra Magnus asked, looking back and forth between both mechs.

“Not long,” Wheeljack replied. “A few breem.” His words were relaxed but there was no hiding the yellow of concern in his head fins, or the relieved tone in his voice.

“How do you feel?” Prowl asked. The question was casual but there was a calculating look in his optics, and he never let go of Field Commander’s arm.

“I’m fine. It was more than a little strange for a moment there, but now I feel fine. Normal even,” Ultra Magnus replied.

“Normal.” Prowl’s tone was flat but then he shook off the obvious concern. “Good. Then we can let the medics get back to their duty and we can proceed with our plans in working out a strategy?”

Ultra Magnus narrowed his optics. “Okay, what’s wrong with normal, Prowl? And don’t say ‘nothing’, because clearly you think we have a problem.”

Prowl pursed his lips; then after a long moment he sighed. “This transfer is not how it has happened in the past. Normally there’s more, there’s a change in the bearer, there’s more … well for lack of a better word, there are more _theatrics_.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t do th’ rituals or perform any of th’ ceremony,” Wheeljack said thoughtfully. “I dunno if I would read too much into nothin’ major happening here.”

“That is a definite possibility,” Prowl replied. “There always was a fifty-eight point five percent chance that the theatrics involved were just there to add weight to the event.”

“Well there we go. Nothing to worry about.” Ultra Magnus stood, trying to ignore the new weight in his chest. After all, he would not have to keep the Matrix for long and there was no need to worry Prowl any more than he already was.

“Come, my friend,” he said, clapping Prowl on the shoulder gently. “Let’s leave Wheeljack to take care of Optimus and get back to the matters at hand.”

Prowl nodded. He followed Ultra Magnus from the bay, a sliver of doubt still nagging at the back of his processor.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry for the delay on this chapter, but I've been suffering from some serious blockages where this story is concerned. I hope you enjoy and that it was worth the wait. Please note that this was not Betaed, and therefore, any and all errors are my own.

It was time. The crowds had gathered and the new Supreme Commander of the Autobots was going to address the masses. One last step and the plot would be complete.

Jazz mentally ticked off his victims.

_Bumblebee: Deactivated – throat ripped out in the med bay_  
Optimus Prime: Deactivated – head blown apart with a well-placed shot.  
Mirage: Deactivated – victim of an explosion  
Prowl: Deactivated – … 

Jazz stumbled for a moment as he thought of Prowl.

“I deactivated him,” Jazz whispered. “I fired on him and I killed him. … I think I did? Didn’t I?”

_Stop overthinking this. You have a mission. Just get to it,”_ a soft voice whispered in the back of his mind. _“Let it go and move on. You are the head of Special Operations for reason. You were chosen for a reason. You can and **will** complete this mission just like you always do. You will take out your enemies just as you have been trained to.”_

The voice was uncomfortably familiar but he couldn’t place it and yet there was something wrong with it. A chirping sound that skittered along the edge of his memory. Every time he almost found the origin, almost found what was wrong, it was ripped away from his reach and he was alone in his head again. But the advice was sound. Logical, even. He couldn’t waste his time worrying about past jobs; not when he was so close to his final assassination.

As predicted, Ultra Magnus had been forced to address the crowd, had been forced to come out of hiding and calm the fears of the panicking masses. Jazz settled into his sniper’s nest, patiently waiting for the scene to begin. Magnus would have to come out of his hidey hole soon. The crowd was growing restless.

Jazz didn’t have to wait long.

\---

Ultra Magnus leaned against the frame of the door leading out to the large balcony, arms crossed over his broad chest as he listened to the other senior staff members with half an audio. Their discussion was bordering on argument and it was clear that they were circling back to the beginning of the issue.

"Yes, we need to encourage calm among the population, but we can't rely on their good judgement," Red Alert said sharply, and Ironhide's hand came down gently on the other mech's arm.

Red Alert vented and made a visible attempt to calm himself before launching back into his argument only to be interrupted by Ironhide.

“Look, you know that Ah’m the last person to jump on th’ idea o’ locking down the citizen and the city. Optimus wouldn’t like that one bit,” Ironhide said with more than a little mournfulness in his words and demeanour. “But th’ fact o’ the matter is that we’re lookin’ at riots out there. Folk’s’re scared an’ they need t’ know that we’re lookin’ out for them.”

“I don’t disagree with that assessment,” Prowl replied slowly, “but we are looking at only a forty-nine per cent chance of success in this endeavour. It is far more likely that the public will view martial law as a confirmation of their fears and they will fight us on it. Riots will increase rather than decrease and we will be forced to bring in troops from the Front to maintain order. We are spread thin enough as is and we cannot afford the time or the mechpower.”

"So, what? We do nothing?" Red Alert demanded. "We just allow the riots to continue? We mollify them with words instead of actions? That will not work and all of your numbers will not change that fact!"

"I am not suggestion that, Red Alert!" Prowl snapped. He quickly regained his composure and his hand came up to rub his chest over his spark chamber. "What I am suggesting is not a lack of action, it is simply a compromise. Yes, we need to do something to enforce the law and calm, but we cannot simply accomplish this with force of arms. I prefer Ironhide's suggestion of rolling curfews. It would have the greatest chance of accomplishing our aims."

"That weren't my idea," Ironhide said simply, shaking his head. "That was Red who suggested it. Look, we can solve all this real easy. What do you think of all this, Magnus?"

Ultra Magnus had only been listening with half an audio. Instead most of his attention was on the world outside this room. He was sure that if he stretched out his senses, he could both hear and feel the anger of the public. Their barely contained rage almost washed over him and the burden of it was nearly unbearable. Logically, he knew he was imagining it all, but a part of him had to wonder if this wasn't the influence of the Matrix and if this is what everything felt like to Optimus. The thought of going out there to face the public with no shielding between them and their raw emotions ... Give him a war and he would fight it, but this political battle was something far out of his comfort zone.

"Ultra Magnus?" Prowl prompted gently. "Your thoughts? You are, after all, the final authority on this."

Magnus looked up at Prowl and cycled his optics in a blink as he tried to focus his attention back to the matter at hand. He quickly replayed the conversation, separating and weighing out the options as they were presented.

“I don’t relish the idea of going out there and telling the people that they will be confined to their homes. We’re fighting for freedom and there’s something very wrong with accomplishing that by taking freedom away,” Ultra Magnus said carefully. “But by the same token, if we do have Decepticons agents and sympathisers out there we can’t allow them to threaten the public any more than they already have.”

“So, what then?” Ironhide asked. “Partial curfews? Rolling shut downs?”

Magnus shook his head. “Not shut downs. That’s far too extreme a response and I don’t want to force that on anyone. No. We need to go out there, explain the situation to the public, and then ask them to calmly return to their homes.”

“And when they don’t agree?” Red Alert asked, darkly.

“If that happens then we’ll deal with it then. I’d rather not do out there looking for a fight. This is going to be hard enough as it is,” Magnus said sombrely.

With that he turned toward the door only to be stopped by Prowl’s hand on his back.

“We still have not dealt with security yet,” Prowl prompted. “We have every reason to suspect that there are Decepticons infiltrating the city and instigating the violence out there. Add to that, Jazz-” Prowl stalled slightly and his hand spasmed slightly as it rested on his chest. “Add to that, Jazz is still out there and he is likely not done with us yet.”

“We have increased security out there,” Ironhide replied. “We have to trust that they can keep Magnus safe when he goes out there. The only other option is that we stay in here and make the speech by video.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad to me,” Red Alert said firmly. “No offence to your security patrols, Ironhide, but they didn’t do much against Jazz when he broke out of here. We have no reason to believe that they’ll do any better when he has more room to work in.”

Ironhide glared at Red Alert and was about to defend his team when Ultra Magnus raised his hand.

“There’s also the possibility that Jazz is out there planning on assassinating me with a sniper rifle. Or maybe he’s in the base already, or maybe Smokescreen and Mirage have succeeded in capturing Jazz and are simply waiting for the riots to die down before coming back here. It’s all a lot of maybes and no real facts,” Magnus sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Prowl, what are the numbers here? What are the odds if I go out there?”

Prowl’s optics dimmed slightly as he ran the numbers through his battle computer, confirming what he already knew.

“There is a greater than seventy-five percent chance that Jazz is out there waiting to assassinate you from a distance,” he finally said softly. “He will choose a location that grants him a line of sight, but that also avails him with the best opportunities to pull out and escape after the job is done.”

“That narrows it down to all the old apartments out there,” Red Alert said angrily. “And at this point we don’t have time to secure those buildings or close them down properly!”

“And we won’t be,” Magnus replied, surprisingly calm. “First off, that isn’t my decision to make, it’s Prime’s. And secondly, even if it was my decision, I wouldn’t make it. There’s no point in fighting if we just end up taking away the homes of our troops.”

Red Alert looked about to argue the point, but he stood down at Ultra Magnus’s firm look.

“Now,” Magnus continued, “there’s far too great a chance against my person if I go out there, but if I don’t I imagine that the chances are any better if I stay in here. The public will take that very badly and the riots will increase until we can’t control them at all. But what if I were to out there with protection? What are the numbers then?”

Prowl’s optics narrowed slightly as he wrapped his processor around the question and the implications. “What kind of protection were you considering?”

“There’s a young tactician on site who can create nearly impenetrable forcefields and another who creates holograms,” Ultra Magnus explained. “Between the two of them we might be able to turn this to our advantage. In fact, between the four of us, we may even be able to come up with a way to bring Jazz in before he causes any more collateral damage. Unless you’ve heard something from Smokescreen and Mirage?”

“I have not,” Prowl replied. “I also have no reason to believe that they have failed in their mission. After all, they have not had much time to fulfil their objectives. Especially when one considers that Jazz does not wish to be captured.”

The 2IC’s optics flicked slightly before he continued. “I do not believe that attempting to apprehend Jazz by force is our best course of action. He will fight back if he is cornered and he will take out anyone who gets in the way, be they security forces or the public gathering out there. If you push him too far, he will not distinguish between innocent bystander and genuine threat.”

Ultra Magnus was silent for a moment before nodding. “Fine. Then we do what we can to defend me out there and see where it takes us. Ironhide, please get Trailbreaker up here and brief him. As soon as we’re sure he can put up a large enough field, I’ll go address the public.”

Ironhide paused for a moment then nodded, turning on his heel and heading out of the room to page Trailbreaker.

“Excuse me,” Red Alert said tightly. “I want to make sure that all of my cameras are functioning out there. Jazz is dangerous and the last thing we want is to be caught with a blind spot.”

Without waiting for confirmation Red Alert strode from the room, his helm lights flickering in obvious irritation and concern.

Prowl sighed softly. “He may not like this plan, but it is a good one. The best option we have given the circumstances.”

Magnus nodded. “I just wish I was more sure of all this. I’ll feel better once it’s all over.”

\---

Smokescreen slipped through the crowd of mechs carefully, being sure to stay near the edges of the square. From this angle he could see most of the area and get a feel for the mechs within it, and his doors were practically shivering with feedback he was collecting from the crowd. Everyone was agitated but contained, though that could change in an instant – all it would take was a single spark to ignite the entire area into a conflagration.

“Up and to your left,” a voice whispered in his audio as a delicate hand brushed over his door-wing with a light touch.

Smokescreen fought the urge to arch into the touch. He knew that Mirage was only trying to get his attention and had no idea what effect he was having, but at the same time, Smokescreen could still feel the phantom presence of the spy’s body and field against him. The Praxian had always been sybaritic being and the events of the day had his senses high and his nerves on edge. When that was added to the sensations he was picking up from the crowd … had he anywhere else under any other circumstance, he would already have a willing partner pinned against an alley wall.

“Left!” Mirage hissed when he didn’t get an immediate reaction from the psychologist, and his fingers snapped sharply against one over sensitized door. “Quadrant seven eight nine two.”

“Yeah. Fine,” Smokescreen snapped, using every ounce of control to avoid punching the spy in his face, assuming that he could find it. It was only with a supreme effort that Smokescreen managed to control himself and drag his attention up and to the area that Mirage was indicating.

At first there was nothing, and then a slight, almost instantaneous flash caught Smokescreen’s attention.

“You’re losing your touch, Jazz,” he murmured to himself as he changed his path through the crowd, aiming for the building Jazz was using as his sniper’s nest.

Suddenly the crowd surged forward as the doors to the main dais opened, revealing three large and shadowy figures inside. 

“Frag,” Smokescreen heard Mirage whisper. “We’re officially out of time.”

Mirage shoved Smokescreen back into motion. Ignoring the need for discretion, Smokescreen broke into a run, stopping only when he reached the door of the abandoned apartment building. The door was sealed and he was about to hack into it when it suddenly flew open.

Mirage appeared just inside the doorway as he dropped his disruption field and glared at Smokescreen.

“We _don’t_ have time for subtlety!” he snapped before running up a nearby set of stair, heading in the direction of the room they suspected Jazz was occupying.

As Smokescreen was about to follow Mirage when the figures on the dais came into full view and the Praxian nearly stalled out. There, standing in front of Ultra Magnus and Prowl was Optimus Prime, alive and apparently completely fine despite having lost his head only two cycles before.

A near-silent oath escaped Smokescreen’s vocalizer only to turn into a squawk of outrage as a slim hand grabbed his doorwing roughly.

“ _Jazz_ is our _only_ concern!” Mirage snapped as he yanked the Praxian through the door and shoved him up the stairs.

Outside they heard Optimus Prime begin to address the crowd. If Jazz was still in any way Jazz, he would still have enough flair to choose the perfect moment to attack and finish his assassinations. Mirage and Smokescreen knew that they only had moments before it would be too late.

Together they moved as quickly as they could while still remaining quiet.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay in this chapter. Writers' Block has continued to rear its ugly head.
> 
> **Notes on terminology:**  
>  Second = Klik (8.3 seconds)  
> Minute = Breem (83 seconds)  
> Hour = Groon (83 minutes)  
> Day = Orn (33 Hours)  
> Week = Cycle (10 days)  
> Month = Quartrex (4 weeks)  
> Year = Solar (13 months – 432 days)  
> Century = Vorn (83 years)

Jazz settled against the frame of the apartment's main window and gazed down at the square below and the dais that would soon serve as podium for his last victim. His rifle was prepared. It would take only one shot, then the crowd would panic like the petro-rabbits they were and he would make his escape. After that he could finally return to his beloved Prowl. Bombshell had promised an end to this living death and he had always made good on his promises. Always.

The doors to the dais opened outward and the crowd surged forward, the smaller mechs slipping forward to better see past the massive dock workers and gladiators -- though Jazz did notice that there were fewer of the larger mechs in the square than he had anticipated. Not that it mattered. The riots working their way through the rest of the city were ensuring that Ironhide's guards were busy elsewhere and wouldn't stop Jazz once he was done this last task.

He cleared his vents and leaned into the rifle, finger stroking the trigger with a delicate touch. In mere moments the remains of the Autobot command structure would come out of those doors to address the crowd. Jazz would give them just enough time to get everyone's rapt attention before sending a shot through Ultra Magnus' spark. The ensuing chaos would give him all the cover he would need to escape before Ironhide's troops could arrive and stop him.

"Soon, love," he whispered. "I'll be with you soon. Just one more job ..."

The three figures came into the full light of the dais and Jazz was taken aback. Optimus Prime, fully functional and active, walked ahead of Ultra Magnus and Prowl. He walked with the stiff attention of a soldier, approaching the crowd with a formality that didn't seem right for a mech who was arguably the spiritual leader of the Cybertronian race.

"This has to be a trick," Jazz muttered under his vocalizer as he felt something move angrily in the back of his processor. "I deactivated him. I deactivated them both."

Suddenly he wasn't so sure. He had watched both Optimus and Prowl fall. He _knew_ that he had offlined them and everyone else. There was no way that they were here now. It had to be a trick, and yet ... No matter how much he tried to ignore the specter of Prowl on the dais he still felt a painful pull in his chest.

"Take the shot," a voice whispered in his mind. "You have one more job and then you're free. Just. One. More. Job. Take the shot."

It was as if a war was raging in him. Logically he knew that this was just another job. He just needed to take out one more mark and then he was done and he could end all of this. But his spark ... it was as if his spark knew better. It was an old battle; one he'd been fighting since he came to the realization that he and Prowl were more than just coworkers, that what they had wasn't just friendship. It was a battle that he never thought he's have to fight again, and that sensation in the back of his processor ... whatever it was, it wasn't happy with this distraction.

"Take the shot, Riccochet. Do as you are told and **TAKE THE SHOT!** "

"... prowl ..." The word was closer to a whine than a word, a sound of pure agony as Jazz tried to fight the new programming and conditioning. He needed to do his job, but Prowl was right there, so close that Jazz could almost reach out to touch him.

\---

Prowl followed Optimus Prime and Ultra Magnus out onto the dais, hanging back and slightly to the left of the Supreme Commander of the Autobots. He just needed to get through this speech and then he could go back to his office and his data pads and the cold logic of his world. These distractions - although necessary - were tearing him apart, forcing him to pull his mind out of his battle computer and work on a more emotional level. No one reacted well to an automaton, especially not when said automaton was the second in command of the Autobot Army.

The speech had been gone over and, if all went according to plan, would take no more than fifteen breem to complete. In a bare fifteen breem, he would be back inside the Iacon base and another ten after that he would be back in his office. He just needed to keep hold of those numbers and he could get through this. Because every moment he spent out of his battle computer was another moment he was dying inside, thinking about how Jazz was out there somewhere. Cold. Alone. Frightened. And fighting a war that Prowl could only imagine. And, contrary to popular belief, his imagination was quite vivid.

Perhaps it was the thoughts of Jazz or the strain of this social engagement, but for a moment, he was sure that he could feel his spark flutter and reach out. He looked out at the crowd and the surrounding buildings, optics scanning for someone he hoped wasn't there. And desperately hoped was.

"Fellow Cybertronians," Optimus began as he settled into a military rest. "If I may have your attention. I am here to address certain statements that have come to my attention. As you can see, I am fine and the command element is still intact. Iacon is still…”

Prowl found himself tuning out of the speech, instead focusing his attention on the one of the supposedly empty buildings across the way. His Jazz was there. Somewhere. He knew that he had to warn Magnus, had to alert the guards, but all logic fled when he felt that oh-so-familiar need. 

"My Jazz ..." The words were whispered, slipping from his vocalizer unbidden as he felt his optics drawn to his mate's nest.

A flash caught his attention as a spotlight glinted off of a piece of metal in one of the abandoned apartments on the far end of the square. He knew that even at his highest visual settings he didn’t have the ability to see that far, and yet he swore that he could see his mate, his Jazz, lying on the floor, propped up against the window sill, a high powered rifle aimed directly at Ultra Magnus' head.

“Jazz ..” he whispered and was almost sure that he could hear a responding voice coming from deep within his spark.

_“My Prowler … almost there … soon …”_

Prowl knew he needed to do something. Needed to warn someone, but he was rooted to the spot as if welded to the plating. He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak, he could only look out at those apartments as his spark reached out for his other half.

\---

Jazz’s mind was in turmoil. There, right on the dais, almost close enough to touch – certainly there was a pain in his chest that was reaching out for the part of him that was missing.

“My Prowler … I can’t ….”

The war raged within him, one side screaming at him to take the shot and the other reminding – in a quiet, logical voice – that this wasn’t him and that he had another choice. Time had slowed to a near stop and even all of the sounds around him had ceased until all there was was the sound of his fuel pump and the vision of a black and white mech on the dais staring back at him.

“… soon … just one more job and I’ll be back with you …”

The muzzle of the rifle began to dip as warm logic began to win over the cold reprograming.

The door to Jazz’s sniper’s nest suddenly slammed open and the spell was broken. Tearing his optics away from his murdered mate, the saboteur levelled his rifle and fired at Ultra Magnus. Prowl and Optimus were of no concern. They were dead at his hand and whatever trick the Autobots were pulling was not his concern. All that mattered was that Magnus died and that Jazz finished off the last victim on his list of targets.

“No!” Mirage yelled as he rushed in to tackle Jazz, grabbing the saboteur just as the shot cracked out.

The front of the dais exploded as a laser slammed into the pedestal sending molten metal in all directions. Optimus and Prowl flinched back from shrapnel that seemed to explode just before it hit them, but Ultra Magnus stood stock still for a moment, almost shimmering in the glare of the fire before he fell back in a heap of smoking metal, disappearing behind the raised edge of the dais.

“Decepticons!”

“Seekers!”

“Rain Makers!”

“Run!”

The crowd ran in all directions, panicked at the very idea of Seekers over Iacon. The larger mechs trampled the smaller and there was nothing that Ironhide’s guards could do to calm the crowds. Even Prime’s urgings from the dais had no effect.

"Calm down!" Optimus Prime called out to the crowd. "There are no Decepticons here! Everyone is safe!"

The crowd ignored him, consumed by their own panic as more Decepticons were sighted by panicked civilians.

Prowl grabbed hold of Prime's arm and pulled it urgently. "We need to get inside. My Jazz will not miss again."

Prime looked down at Prowl and nodded as soon as he saw pale glow of the Praxian's optics and how hard his hand was pressed over his spark chamber. His doors hung low on his back and he swayed dangerously on his feet.

"All right. Fine. Let's go." Prime took hold of Prowl's arm, helping the unsteady Praxian back into the building. "I hate leaving them out there like that."

"I understand, but Hound can only keep the illusion up for another three point four five breem and it will take at least ten to get the crowd's attention, let alone calm them," Prowl said as they passed the doorway.

As soon as they were out of the site of the public, Optimus Prime melted away to reveal Ultra Magnus. Nearby, a medium-sized green and tan mech slumped slightly, leaning against a massive black mech, clearly exhausted.

"Trailbreaker, Hound, you both did well. Thank you for your help," Magnus said. "Now go get yourself some fuel and rest."

Both mechs nodded and were about to leave when Prowl spoke up. 

"Do remember that you are under the strictest of secrecy regarding these event."

"Yes sir," Trailbreaker and Hound replied together before leaving the room.

Ultra Magnus sighed and shook his head slightly. "I don't like leaving things like that. They're going to tear themselves apart out there," he said as he stared at the door to the dais.

"Ironhide and Red Alert's troops will handle things," Prowl replied as he sat down heavily, hand rubbing mindlessly at his chest. "If Jazz was not fooled by our deception, then he _will_ take another shot as soon as he sees that you are still online. If that occurs, I can assure you that he will not miss again."

Ultra Magnus nodded and came to sit beside his second-in-command. After a moment he placed a comforting hand on Prowl's arm. "Mirage and Smokescreen are still out there. They'll stop Jazz and they'll bring him home safely."

Prowl didn't bother to correct Magnus' belief. There was no point in bringing up the low probability of the spy and the psychologist taking Jazz alive. That would only lead to that look -- the one of dawning realization that Prowl was a dead mech walking.

\---

Jazz's shot hit home, sending Ultra Magnus tumbling to the plating, but there was something wrong about it. Something wasn't sitting right, but before he could refocus his aim to the newly activated Optimus Prime, he was tackled from behind.

Mirage kicked away the rifle as he grappled with his enraged captain.

"No!" Jazz growled as he slammed an open hand punch into Mirage's chest.

Mirage grunted but managed to keep his hold but he didn't have the weight to pin the larger mech and far too soon their positions were reversed. Jazz's hand came down hard on Mirage's throat, closing to a vice grip. 

The spy kicked up against Jazz, his knee coming up to slam into the wide, black and white chest and pushing him away forcefully. Jazz had many tricks that he had never taught his underlings and Mirage was no match for him. Far too soon, the spy was securely on his back on the plating, Jazz scrabbling to rip out his primary cables.

"You're supposed to be dead!" Jazz hissed. "I killed you already!"

"Jazz!" Mirage gasped as he grabbed hold of his commander's arms, pulling those hands away from his throat. "You don't need to do this!"

"You can't keep me from my Prowl! I won't let you stop me!" Jazz's words were almost a howl of despair rather than words. "I'm almost done and **You. Won't. Stop. Me!** "

Suddenly Smokescreen fired at Jazz, sending a pulse of confusion through the saboteur. The disruptor rifle should have disabled his target immediately, but Jazz was shielded and he was able to shrug off the disorientation. But not before Mirage was able to push Jazz off him and away. Jazz took the briefest moment to assess his the situation before running to the window, transforming as he leapt over the sill. His rear mounted ailerons kicked in and he soared out onto the winds over the square. With the grace of a true flyer, the saboteur sailed out over the heads of the panicking crowd.

“Oh you have got to be kidding me!” Smokescreen growled out as he launched himself off after Jazz.

“Smokescreen! Stop!” Mirage ordered, running to the window just in time to see the psychologist transform and hit the ground hard, his antigravs only just keeping him from smashing his frame against the hard surface of the square.

“No time! If we lose him now who knows when we’ll find him again!” Smokescreen called back over a comm line as he fishtailed wildly and sped off after the airborne saboteur.

“Fragging idiot!” Mirage spat as he followed Jazz’s progress, mentally calculating his path and coming to a conclusion that made his fuel run cold. “… he’s going to the smelting pools.”


	15. Chapter 15

Smokescreen drove madly after Jazz, barely managing to keep the saboteur in his sights. As fast as he was, Jazz was faster, but he was also distracted; weaving and twisting wildly as he drove through the streets of Iacon. Had he kept to the air or taken a straight route to wherever he was going there would be no way for Smokescreen to have caught up, but every time he slammed into a wall or a group of civilians, he slowed and that was giving Smokescreen just the edge he needed to start catching up. There were several points when he nearly reached the saboteur but never close enough to risk transforming and he didn’t dare fire any of his weapons with so many civilians in the way. There were going to be more than enough deactivations today as it was without him adding any.

Smokescreen opened his comms and sent a ping to Jazz, cycling through the various frequencies as he tried to find the right one.

_“… get them in there! We’re locking everything down now!”_ Ironhide yelled out over the comms. _“You are to get everyone, and I do mean **everyone** inside. The general lockdown is in effect-“_

Smokescreen switched frequencies away from Ironhide and his troops, cycling past military and civilian alike until he finally reached the familiar voice of Jazz. He was muttering in Vos and Polyhexian and other traditionally Decepticon dialects that Smokescreen only partially understood. One thing that was clear though was that Jazz was arguing vehemently with someone, but the comm signal seemed to be on a loop that returned only to Jazz.

_"It's done ... **NO** it is done! I'm finished! ... You **PROMISED**! You swore that I could as soon as I was done!"_ Jazz mumbled as he turned a corner, fishtailing dangerously as he lost control and slammed into the corner of a building. _"I ain't discussin' this no more! You promised and I'm gonna get what's mine! .... please ... you promised ..."_

Smokescreen patched into the comm line and began to speak, his voice carefully modulated to sound sincere and nonthreatening.

_"Jazz, it's fine. You've done everything you need to do and you can come back to us now,"_ he said in a low, soothing voice. _"You can come back home. Everything will be fine."_

Jazz's laugh could be heard over the comm and through the air. It was full of bitter pain and deep despair. As if the words gave him an additional push, he straightened and sped off, focused as if for the first time.

"Primus slag it!" Smokescreen spat as he sped up, straining his engine to close the gap between him and the saboteur. He could feel himself start to redline as he angrily brushed warnings out of his HUD. 

Finally they reached their destination. The Smelting Pools.

Jazz slowed and transformed, instantly bounding up the steps to the glowing red mouths of the pools. Smokescreen wasted no time. Without thinking of the consequesnces, he transformed and fired at Jazz, sending out a web of interference. He knew that his weapon was too close to Jazz's own and that the saboteur would be able to compensate, but Primus willing, the shot would give him just enough time to pounce and contain Jazz. Unfortunately for him, Jazz was more than ready for an attack.

Smokescreen jumped, aiming to land on Jazz's back, but the second he was within reach, Jazz spun and grabbed him, twisting in one easy movement as he pinned the psychologist to the plating.

"This doesn't concern you, Smokey," Jazz growled in a broken and static filled voice. "Stay down and don't make me kill you, mech."

Without waiting for a reply, Jazz stood and walked purposefully toward the open mouth of the smelting pool and it was clear in that moment that the saboteur was going to throw himself in.

"No!" Smokescreen cried as he launched himself again at Jazz. "Jazz! Stop this! We can talk this through! We can go home and we can all sit down and talk. Just you, me, and Prowl, okay?"

"Prowl's dead. I killed him myself. I killed all of them." Jazz's tone was broken, but the words came out like they were recorded long ago and were coming back via playback. "Don't make me kill you too, Smokey. Y'er not on the list."

Smokescreen continued to fight, punching and kicking and grabbing in a desperate attempt to distract Jazz, to pull him from the pool and certain death.

"They're fine and I can prove it," he gasped. It had been far too long since he'd seen hand to hand combat, and even when he had been with Special Operations, he had been no match for Jazz. "I just need you to come with me. Come back with me and I promise that I'll prove it to you."

Jazz grabbed one of Smokescreen's fists right before it made contact and twisted the attached arm up and behind the Praxian's back.

"You know, they've never sent you after me before," Jazz whispered into Smokescreen's audio, and as he spoke his voice changed. Gone was the hesitant, static filled despair, and in it's place was something strong, cold, and terribly cruel. "It was always someone I cared for before. That always made it hard. Killing those I love. You'll make a nice change, Smokescreen. After all, I do owe you this."

The last word was hissed as Jazz pushed Smokescreen forward forcibly, while never letting go of his twisted arm. The Praxian cried out as he felt something crack in the joints and suddenly he was let go, free to do whatever he wanted. Unfortunately, the last shove put him at the mouth of the open pool, and all it took was a gentle, almost teasing touch to send him into the gaping maw. The last thing he saw was the purple glow of Jazz's visor.

Smokescreen grabbed desperately at the edge, feet scrabbling for purchase on the rough sides of the pool. Whatever Jazz had done to his arm has weakened it significantly and there was no way that he would be able to hold on much longer. He was going to fall and that would be the end of it.

"Please .... no, not like this," he whispered as he tried to pull himself up. He could feel the heat of the pool, hot enough to start to bubble the finish off of his feet and legs. In a few short minutes his joints would seize and he's feel his metal skin begin to melt. "Please ... Primus, not like this ..."

A shadow fell across him and as he looked up he saw Jazz staring down at him.

"Jazz, please, this isn't you. You're stronger than this, mech. You need to remember who you are and come back to us."

"I am coming back to you. Sorry you had to get in the way, Smokey." Jazz's voice sounded genuinely sorry, but he made no attempt to help the psychologist. Instead he faced the pool and prepared to jump.

Suddenly Jazz was pulled back from the edge. There was a sharp cry, the clang of metal against metal, and then nothing. For what felt like forever, Smokescreen hung from the lip of the pool, desperately trying to pull himself out and failing. He was going to die here and there was nothing he was going to be able to do about it.

With a shiver he pulled up a long forgotten program and prepared to wipe his memory core. At least he wouldn't have to feel the agonizing pain of hitting that molten slag.

Right as he was about to activate the program a pair of slim blue hands took hold of his wrists and pulled him up and over the edge of the pool. He fell in an ungainly pile of limbs on top of the slim form of another mech. Cycling his optics he found himself staring into the vaguely amused and highly disgusted yellow optics of Mirage, and just like in the alleyway, he wasn't sure if he wanted to punch or kiss the former noblemech.

Smokescreen rolled away before he could do something unbelievably stupid and irreparable.

“Thank you,” he said breathlessly as he lay flat on his back on the ground.

Mirage let out a non-committal sound and sat up. “Don’t make me regret it. … and you owe me two now.”

"How do you figure two?" Smokescreen asked. "I saved you from getting your aft handed to you by Jazz in the alley."

"You and I remember the events of that alley very differently," Mirage replied as he stood and carefully moved to the prone form of Jazz.

"You saved me here and in the alley," Smokescreen replied as he helped Mirage to lift the saboteur. "And then I saved you from Jazz in the sniper's nest."

"I was perfectly capable of protecting myself, Smokescreen," Mirage replied derisively.

"As was I in the alley. Primus! I'd forgotten just how heavy he is!" Smokescreen groaned as he took the majority of Jazz's weight against his undamaged shoulder and arm.

Together they moved the offline mech through the almost empty streets, doing their best to stay ahead of the Autobot guards and the mobs of protesters who hadn't been scared off by the prospect of a Decepticon attack. It didn't take long to reach a safehouse that was hidden among the warehouses of the docks serving the Rust Sea.

"I never knew this one was here," Smokescreen said as he pulled Jazz into the main room and kicked the door shut behind him.

"There are two recharge rooms set up," Mirage said, ignoring Smokescreen's comment. "We'll put Jazz in the one on the left since it's slightly larger and we can use the other one in shifts."

"Sounds fine," Smokescreen replied.

In a moment they had Jazz on the berth and Smokescreen had attached a small medical device to the saboteur's head and neck, connecting it to several access ports.

"And that's that," he said. "Once this little darling does its job, Jazz will wake up and I can start evaluating him. As soon as I have a better idea of his mental state, we'll know how we can proceed."

"Will this take long?" Mirage asked.

Smokescreen shrugged slightly. "Maybe a few breen. Half a groon at most."

“Good. then would you care to explain why you ran off without a plan in place?” Mirage asked tightly.

“We didn’t have time to discuss things, Raj,” Smokescreen replied, knowing full well that the nickname would irritate the spy.

Mirage’s lips thinned into a tight line but he refused to rise to the obvious bait. Instead he kept on the same track.

“You aren’t going to distract me, Smokescreen. What you did was unbelievably stupid and it could have gotten you killed.”

“Aw, and here I thought you didn’t care, Mirage.” Smokescreen made no attempt to mask the mocking tone or hide the smirk that tugged at his lips.

“Do not mistake my concern for this mission and for Jazz as a concern for your well-being,” Mirage said, his patrician drawl doing nothing to hide the contempt in his voice.

Smokescreen sighed and turned away from the device and Jazz.

“You know, Mirage, this whole attitude is severely counter-productive. In fact, I’d be tempted to say that you’re pushing me away for a deeper reason; that this whole hate-on you have for me is masking your true feelings.”

“Then you would be wrong,” Mirage replied coldly. “My reasons are clear and on the record. However, I am fully willing to put aside my personal feelings for the good of this mission. Something, I might add, that you seems either unwilling or incapable of doing. Instead you’re hiding behind crass flirtations and psychobabble.”

Smokescreen’s chevron arched slightly at the response. “Crass flirtations and psychobabble? Trust me, Mirage, there is nothing crass about my flirtations,” he said, an amused and somewhat predatory look forming in his optics.

He seemed about to say more, but the device in his hand beeped, drawing his attention away.

“And that’s that,” Smokescreen said, suddenly completely professional. “He should be online momentarily and then I can start his up. I’ll need you outside. I want Jazz to feel as comfortable as possible and he’s not likely to talk with an audience present.

Mirage’s lips thinned, but gave a curt nod and turned to leave the room.

“I’ll be right outside.” The simple statement managed to sound like both a promise and a warning to the psychologist.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the warnings are in full effect in this chapter. Please be aware.

The door to the room slid shut with the audible clicking of poorly maintained workings cutting Smokescreen and Jazz off from Mirage. With that the psychologist sat on the edge of the berth and he gently touched his patient’s arm.

“Jazz? It’s time to wake up, boss,” Smokescreen said soothingly. “Come on back to us. You’re safe and everything you’ve needed to do has been done. Come on back to us.”

He touched Jazz’s arm gently, stroking along the seams in what he had intended to be soothing. Jazz onlined his optics slightly and reached up to take Smokescreen’s hand, squeezing it lightly.

“What happened?” he asked, his voice slurred with a slight burr of static at the ends of the words.

“You’re safe now, Jazz. We’ve got you back to a safe house and you’re okay now,” Smokescreen replied, moving his free hand up to the saboteur’s helm. “Once you feel up to it, could you tell me what you remember?”

“I ... Uhm ...” Jazz faltered, his optics dimming slightly.

“It’s okay, Jazz,” Smokescreen said, running gentle fingers over the top of his patient’s helm, carefully avoiding those sensitive horns. “It’s okay. Take your time. You’re probably still a little fogged.”

“Yeah, yeah, it is a little,” Jazz replied, as he shifted a little closer to Smokescreen.

Smokescreen felt a slight warming as Jazz expanded his field, reaching out for comfort and familiarity. Smokescreen was more than happy to reciprocate if it meant that Jazz would relax and open up. He gently ran his hand in soothing circles over Jazz’s back, encouraging him to relax and remember what had happened to him. It wouldn’t be pretty, but if he could keep Jazz calm, Smokescreen would be able get some much needed answers.

“So,” Smokescreen said, moderating his voice carefully, “let’s start at the beginning, okay? Do you remember your last mission?”

Jazz tensed up slightly, his field shrinking in fear for a moment. Then Smokescreen purred his engine slightly and he felt Jazz relax and lean back against his chest.

“I, uhm … we were breaking into Darkmount,” Jazz said. “It was a pretty routine job actually. Should have been anyways. It wouldn’t be the first time that ‘Raj, Bee, an’ me were in there. But you know that already.”

“Yeah,” Smokescreen replied. Before he had been transferred out there had been talk of breaking into Darkmount. It was never a mission that he had been able to partake in. There were aspects of Special Ops that he had been good at, and ones that he hadn’t been, and infiltration had never been his best subject.

“Not sure, but I think someone sold us out,” Jazz said. “We got what we were after but …”

Again, Jazz seemed to shrink in on himself and he leaned further into Smokescreen until he was almost cuddling with the psychologist, clearly seeking comfort.

“It’s okay, Jazz,” Smokescreen replied, wrapping his arms around the saboteur. “It’s okay. We can take this slow. As slow as you want. I know that you’re going to need time. But Jazz, you and I, we need to debrief, and you need to get this out. You can’t heal if you keep it all bottled up.”

Jazz shivered but nodded. For a long moment he was silent, clinging to Smokescreen. When he finally spoke his voice was uncharacteristically small.

“We got what we were after but someone … The ‘Cons knew we were there. The _let_ us get in. They _let_ us take the data. And then when we thought we were out we … we …” Jazz’s fingers dug into Smokescreen’s arm spasmodically and he shivered violently.

This was a side of Jazz that the psychologist had never seen, and it worried him. For all of his party-bot attitude when he was off duty, Jazz was a rock. Nothing threw him, nothing phased him, and nothing ever reduced him to this kind of shivering, broken mess. At least not that Smokescreen had ever seen.

“It’s okay, Jazz, really,” he said, revving his engine again and doing everything he could to calm the other mech without resorting to more drastic measures. The last thing he wanted to do was sedate him.

“I don’t want to remember, love,” Jazz whimpered and he clutched. “I know I’ve got to, I know ya need me to, but I can’t … please don’t make me ...”

Smokescreen knew that there was a line and he was on it, coming dangerously close to crossing. Jazz wasn’t seeing the psychologist – possibly, he never had – and it was clear that he was speaking with Prowl, confessing to his bonded mate, not to Smokescreen. The problem was, this confusion was getting results. Jazz was starting to remember, and if a little confusion helped in that process, then was it really a bad thing?

“Jazz, we need you to tell us what happened. I know it’s hard, but we need that report,” Smokescreen said as he held Jazz close and rumbled his engine soothingly.

Jazz shuddered and then sighed as he nodded slightly. “… we got what we were after, we were leavin’ Darkmount when the ‘Cons jumped us. I told ‘Raj and Bee to run while I stayed behind to set up an explosion …”

“And they both got back to us. Thanks to you,” Smokescreen replied gently.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m back now. That’s all I want to remember.” Jazz twisted to look at Smokescreen and smiled. It was far too tender to be simple friendship.

“I need you to focus, Jazz. I can’t start to help you until I know what happened,” Smokescreen said, trying to be gentle and firm at the same time.

Jazz turned completely and looked at Smokescreen. He reached out with one hand and stroked the Praxian’s door, smirking as it pressed into his hand.

“I can think of a few things I’d like t’ focus on,” he said, his optics smouldering. 

Smokescreen pulled away, careful to make it not come across as a rejection. “We can think about that later, Jazz. We’ve got other things we need to deal with now.”

“Oh come on, lover,” Jazz purred. “We’ve got all the time to talk, but right now I’ve got something else I want to remember.”

Smokescreen’s fans hitched as Jazz leaned in close, his hands stroking the edge of the doors. For the barest instant he was almost tempted to reciprocate. It would be so easy to give in, to let Jazz play out his hallucination and move on. After all, he knew from intimate experience just how good the saboteur could be, and right now he was pushing every single one of Smokescreen’s buttons. But that would be so horribly wrong and leave him with so many more pieces to pick up. He was better than his urges. He knew that.

“Jazz, this is a really bad idea. I’m not who you think I am,” the psychologist said, his vocalizer buzzing slightly with his own repressed tension and lust.

He placed his hands on his patient’s chest, gently trying to push him away. Unfortunately it had exactly the opposite effect.

“No need for the games,” Jazz whispered, his field reaching out and brushing over Smokescreen. “Though we can roleplay later, if ya want.”

“Jazz!” Smokescreen pushed Jazz to arm’s length. He needed to snap the saboteur out of this, and if he needed to be harsh, then so be it. “Stop it!”

“ _NO!_ ” Jazz cried. “ _NO!_ I _NEED_ you! Please, Prowl! I need you!”

Smokescreen was instantly pinned to the berth, Jazz kissing him with a desperate need. 

Smokescreen bit back a cry as Jazz pressed in further, raw spark energy flowing from the saboteur and enveloping the psychologist.

“Jazz! Stop! I-” Smokescreen gasped as another sharp pulse was sent into his spark and it was all he could do to push the other mech away.

“… prowl … oh, prowl, I need ya! I need ya so much! Please! Don’t say no! I’m sorry! I just need this! I need you!” The words tumbled from Jazz’s lips in a fevered litany as he used all his skills and raw power to press Smokescreen to the berth and continue the forced interface.

Pain ripped through Smokescreen’s spark as his energy reacted to the assault and clashed with the foreign signature. Without conscious thought he lashed out, sending a harsh pulse into Jazz as he shoved at the saboteur again.

Jazz stumbled back momentarily as the unexpected display of aggression and it was the only window Smokescreen needed. He heaved his weight up and slammed Jazz off the berth and to the floor. He pulled back sharply but was stopped as Jazz’s hands closed on his wrists in an iron grip.

“No! You can’t leave me!” Jazz cried out as he pulled Smokescreen close, clasping one hand around the back of his head and capturing the Praxian’s mouth in a searing kiss.

The fight, the spark energy, the kiss, and the fact that Smokescreen was already revved from the earlier touches were leaving the Praxian weak and losing the fight. Without intending to, he leaned into Jazz as his reserves started to give out on him.

Neither mech heard Mirage enter the room, but they both heard the cry of outrage as he descended on them.

“What the frag do you think you’re doing?” he roared as he grabbed hold of Smokescreen and tossed the mech aside in a perfectly executed flip.

Smokescreen cried out in pain as the tenuous connection was forcibly broken. He landed hard against the berth, his hand instantly coming up to cover his chest above his spark chamber. Mirage spun on him with a growl.

“I knew you had no morals, but how could you! How could you take advantage like that?!” Mirage demanded. He never saw Jazz descend on him.

“No! You will NOT take him away from me! He’s _MY PROWL_!” Jazz screamed as he attacked Mirage.

The spy was thrown to the ground as Jazz landed on his back, fists slamming into his sides with the force of a pile driver. His attack was wild, but he wasn’t holding back and it was all Mirage could do to hold him off. And not harm his commander.

“Jazz! Stop!” Mirage growled as he tried to grab his commander’s wrists. “Stop! We’re not a threat to you!”

“No! I won’t lose him again! You can’t take him from me!” Jazz slammed his fists into Mirage’s nosecone, knowing exactly where to hit in order to do the most damage possible.

 

Smokescreen lurched to his feet and tackled Jazz from the side, rolling him away from Mirage and pinning him to the plating.

“Prowl!” Jazz shrieked as Smokescreen slapped a pair of vibrocuffs around the saboteur’s wrists. “Please! Prowl!”

Without a word Smokescreen pressed his fingers against Jazz’s neck, just below his helm and slipped a sedation stick into the exposed port.

“Shhh … calm down, Jazz. Calm down and we’ll help you. We’ll bring you back to Prowl. I promise,” Smokescreen whispered.

Jazz’s struggles weakened until he was reduced to a shivering, whimpering mass on the plating.

“Now I only owe you one, Mirage,” Smokescreen said in a breathless murmur as he continued to lay across Jazz’s back, pinning the saboteur to the floor.

Mirage’s optics never left the vibrocuffs, curiosity warring with a deeply felt offense warring on his faceplates.

“Where did you get those?” Mirage asked then suddenly he raised his hand and shook his head. “No, never mind. I do not want to know.”

Without another word, he less-than-gently nudged Smokescreen out of the way and helped Jazz to his feet.

“It’s okay, Jazz,” Mirage whispered as he helped his commander onto the berth. “Everything will be all right.”

Smokescreen rolled to his feet and leaned against the wall, one hand rubbing his chest.

“That sedative will have him out for the next several groon,” he said. “By then he’ll have calmed and we’ll be able to start over.”

Mirage removed the vibrocuffs from his commander’s wrists and replaced them with a normal pair.

“I’m sorry about this,” he murmured as he laid a hand on Jazz’s helm. “You’ll be fine, but this is for your own good. We can’t have you freaking out on us, right?”

“He’ll be fine, Raj,” Smokescreen said.

Mirage turned on the psychologist and instantly took in his state. His paint was smeared with streaks of black, his engine was running high, his vents straining, and his optics were off-colour. And he kept rubbing his chest. Right above his spark chamber. Instantly he knew what had happened, but he didn’t – he couldn’t – believe that his commander was capable of such a thing. There was more going on and Smokescreen’s lack of ethics were at the core of it.

“Out!” he demanded, pointing at the door. “I will _not_ discuss your actions in front of Jazz.”

“My actions?” Smokescreen asked, his voice a low and angry growl. “And what exactly do you think it is that I did? Other than save your aft.”

“I _said_ out,” Mirage growled.

There was a momentary stand-off, neither mech willing to back down, both sizing the other up. Finally, Smokescreen turned and stored out of the room and into the main living area. As soon as the door hissed shut behind Mirage, Smokescreen turned on him.

“Why, precisely, is it that you hate me so much? What in the pit have I ever done to you?” Smokescreen demanded in a low hiss.

“Aside from selling us out to the Cons when we had the Combaticons captured?” Mirage’s tone was a sneer that held nothing but contempt for the psychologist.

Smokescreen glared at Mirage, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “A, I never sold anyone out! And B, you hated me from the moment I joined the Bots so don’t you dare hide behind an imagined sin!”

“Then let me rephrase,” Mirage replied, ignoring the flash of anger. “I don’t trust Decepticons or those who associate with them.”

“Associate with Cons?!” Smokescreen’s voice rose to an angry pitch.

Mirage hissed and glanced at the recharge room door.

“I have never associated with Cons save for the one time you people insisted on sticking me in a room with one! Against my advice I might add!” Smokescreen continued in a lower voice.

“ And yet, when you were locked in that room I seem to recall you getting awfully close to said ‘Con.” A smirk ghosted across Mirage’s face, his entire being radiating arrogance.

Smokescreen huffed in irritation, turning away from the spy. “I broke up with him when they joined that maniac. I joined the Autobots shortly after, and the only Con I have ever had associations with is stuck in a fraggin’ _MIND PRISON_!” Smokescreen’s voice broke as he was overcome with emotion before he could control himself.

“And that’s why I don’t trust you,” Mirage said simply. “Your judgment is compromised. Just look at who your friends and lovers are. Look at what your habits are.”

Smokescreen spun back to face Mirage. “You know nothing of my friends or my lovers,” he said angrily, jabbing a finger in the middle of the spy’s chest. “Or my habits for that matter. You act like I’m going to gamble away The Prime or something!

Mirage glanced down at the offended finger but made no move to remove it. “You are a mech with an addictive personality and impulse control issues. Give me one good reason why I should trust you not to sell us all out?

“Because I have never been anything by loyal to the Autobots! I would _NEVER_ commit treason and there is _nothing_ the Cons could offer to buy me off!” Smokescreen snapped making a slashing movement with his hand to emphasize his point.

Mirage turned and paced away slowly. When he spoke his voice was thoughtful. “Most people don’t outright commit treason. All it takes is a whispered suggestion, and off-hand hint about sensitive information. A spy can squeeze more information out of you than any interrogator could ever dream of.”

“I’m not any other mech, Mirage. And considering that both Jazz and Neuron trust me, I would think a little bit of faith is in order here.”

Mirage shrugged indifferently. “If I were a Decepticon I could make you spill every one of your secrets without even trying.”

Smokescreen smiled and stepped in close to Mirage. “That sounds like a challenge to me...,” he said in a low, seductive voice.

“And that is precisely what I’m talking about, Smokescreen,” Mirage said with a sneer. “The second the opportunity presents itself you jump at the chance to take a bet or to whore yourself out. How long do you think you can keep this going before you let something slip?”

Smokescreen’s optics widened as if he had been slapped and he stepped back from the other mech.

“… frag you, Mirage …”

With that whispered curse Smokescreen turned and headed back into the second recharge chamber, shutting the door firmly behind him. As soon as the door was shut, he slid down the wall, burying his face in his hands.


	17. Chapter 17

As soon as the door slid shut behind Smokescreen, Mirage turned and re-entered the room holding Jazz. He was still in recharge, but it was fitful. He was murmuring low in his vocalizer, his head tossing and hands clenching spasmodically.

“... prowl ... please ... need you ... please ... please ... need .... prowl ...”

Mirage placed his hand over Jazz’s chest and felt the pulse of his throbbing spark. It was erratic and harsh and needy.

“Jazz, what did you do?” he asked softly, as he stroked the saboteur’s helm.

“ ... prowler ... i can’t do this ... please .... please ....”

“We’ll get you help. Just hang tight,” Mirage said. “Just rest and we’ll get you home and back to him. I just have to go check on something first.”

He left the room with a sigh and knocked on the door of the other room.

“Smokescreen, may I come in?”

When there was no answer he activated the door. It slid open with a soft groan of age, revealing the darkened room. His optics adjust to the darkness and in a moment he found the psychologist on the far side of the room beside the berth. He was sitting huddled on the floor, his arms crossed over his knees and his head on his arms. He looked miserable, and Mirage could hear the slight strain in Smokescreen’s engine in the silence.

“Smokescreen?”

“What?” the psychologist finally asked, never looking up.

“Are you well?” Mirage knew that he sounded curt and overly formal, but he wasn’t comfortable enough with the other mech to relax in any way.

“Yes,” Smokescreen replied curtly. “I’m fine. Is that all?”

Mirage’s optics narrowed and he hands closed into fists at his sides. He knew that he needed to remain calm but Smokescreen always managed to bring the worst out in him. It was like every comment was designed to annoy him as much as possible.

He cleared his vents and cycled his optics, willing himself to calm down. The mission was stressing everyone to the breaking point -- not just the mission; all of events together were more than anyone should be expected to take. And it was time for him to put aside his mistrust of Smokescreen. At least for the duration of this mission. ... Or maybe just the night.

“Smokescreen, I apologize for earlier,” Mirage said curtly. “I misinterpreted what I witnessed. Did Jazz injure you? In any way?”

Smokescreen looked up but remained silent, clearly contemplating a scathing response. After a long moment he cleared his vents and rested his chin on his crossed arms.

“I’m fine, Mirage. There’s no permanent damage,” he replied, but his doors were hanging low and twitching slightly against the wall.

“For an alleged conmech, you are a terrible liar,” Mirage said, as he came fully into the room and sat on the berth across from where Smokescreen was on the floor.

“Why do you care, Mirage?” Smokescreen asked, making no attempt to hide the bitterness. “We have Jazz back, you can bring him back to Iacon and a proper psychologist as soon as things calm down a little out there. So why do you care if I’ve been damaged in any way?”

Mirage bit back a sigh and resisted the urge to leave. He wasn’t good at this. At all. And yet he needed to do something otherwise he would never be able to properly complete this mission. And if he was being honest with himself, he couldn’t leave another Autobot in pain like this. Even if the Autobot in question was Smokescreen.

“Regardless of how I may feel about you, personally, you _are_ an Autobot. And you were right. The fact that both Jazz and Neuron trust you should be enough for me.”

“But it isn’t, right?” Smokescreen replied. This time there was no bitterness in the tone, just a deep weariness. “It doesn’t matter that I’ve proven myself to all the brass. It doesn’t matter that I’ve done everything -- okay, _almost_ everything right -- and it’s still not enough for you, is it?” Smokescreen shook his head and made a bitter little sound. “And here’s the thing. I don’t get why I even care. You have always gotten under my plating and I have no idea why I _keep_ letting you.”

Mirage’s optics widened slightly at the reaction, but he quickly schooled his features. “That’s the question, isn’t it? We’re colleagues. That’s all we ever were so I don’t see why you need me to like you. Why we have to have anything more than cool familiarity.”

Smokescreen shrugged. “You’re right, we don’t. Now that that’s out of the way we can move on and complete this mission. And then we can go back to ignoring each other.”

Mirage closed his optics wearily. This was _not_ going in any way to plan. Yes, Smokescreen was giving all of the right answers, but it was in such a passive aggressive way that it was clear the wounds were still festering and would further affect their working relationship. It was time to try a different tack.

“Smokescreen, would you mind telling me what happened between you and Jazz? I need to know if you can continue to work with him, or if we need to worry about further incidents.”

It was clear that Smokescreen was contemplating his answers. There were so many possible angles. Avoidance. Irritation. Subtle lies. Variants on the possible truth. Outrageous lies. It seemed that the psychologist was contemplating all of them. What Mirage got surprised him.

“I misjudged just how far gone he was,” Smokescreen said. “I should have realized that he was seeing Prowl and not me, but by the time I realized ..” he trailed off with a shrug. “I was an idiot and I should have know better than to get tactile with him in the first place, but he wasn’t opening up. Next thing I knew he was trying to initiate a bond and I slipped.” He shook his head and snorted derisively. “I messed up. Big time.”

“You did,” Mirage replied drily. He immediately raised a hand to stop any protest. “I’m not going to excuse your behaviour in any way. You nearly cost us our mission and you nearly cost us Jazz. Neither is something I’m willing to forgive or forget. But I am more than willing to move on. It’s what Jazz would expect. We deal with our wounds and our injuries once the job is done. Never before. Of course, this is all assuming that you were telling the truth earlier.”

“When?” Smokescreen asked, seeming genuinely confused. 

“When you said that you were unharmed,” Mirage replied, standing and looking down at the other mech. “If you really are unharmed we can continue as soon as you’re ready. If not, if Jazz really did damage your spark in any way, then we can regroup and figure out our next move. You’re of no use to any of us if you’re damaged instead of hurt.”

Smokescreen nodded and his doors spoke volumes about his mental state. He was better than he had been when Mirage had first entered. Not at one hundred percent, but well enough to keep working. Probably.

Mirage moved to the door. “Take your time getting back together. Just not too long. We _are_ on a deadline after all.”

Smokescreen finally nodded. “Sure thing. … Boss.”

It was the first expression of acceptance that Mirage had heard from him since the mission had began. Possibly the first time ever, now that he thought about it. Mirage had only accepted Smokescreen because of Jazz’s acceptance of him, because certainly the con-mech and alleged psychologist had never done anything to endear himself to Mirage. They had always rubbed each other the wrong way, and neither had been willing to take that first step toward some kind of reconciliation. Until now. It was a pity that it took this horror inflicted on Jazz to start the process.

\---

Smokescreen exited the secondary recharge chamber several groon later. He looked better than he had earlier, but he clearly was not yet at full working capacity.

“How’s he doing?” Smokescreen asked, nodding toward the other door.

“He fell into recharge shortly after I left you and he’s been quiet ever since,” Mirage replied. “I was just in to check him. His signature seems fine and he’s resting peacefully.”

Smokescreen nodded. “Good. I’m going to wake him and try to get him to open up. See if I can find out what happened to him and if whatever this is has run it’s course. If we’re lucky - which I’m sure we aren’t - this will all have been a program with specific goals. Now that he thinks he’s accomplished them, it’ll have burned out.”

“And then what?” Mirage asked, sounding genuinely curious. “When the worst happens, as you clearly think it will, what do you suggest then?”

Smokescreen crossed his arms under his bumper and leaned back against the wall. “If all goes like it’s supposed to, if we can get Jazz to Ratchet, he might be able to do something more radical. Something surgical. My fear is that the second we walk into the base …” He shook his head as he trailed off.

“You’re worried about Prowl’s orders,” Mirage said simply. “And you’re worried about Ironhide’s and Red Alert’s security troops.”

Smokescreen nodded. “Yeah. And I’m worried about Neuron.”

“Neuron? How so?” Mirage asked. “She intense, but do you really think that she’d do something to Jazz?”

Smokescreen pursed his lips as he collected his thoughts. “It’s just a feeling. I have nothing concrete, I just … look, I know obsession when I see it, and she’s obsessed. Just imagine what she could do for the ‘ _Autobot cause_ ’ if she got her hands on whatever technique the Cons used on Jazz? I mean, he’s so thoroughly reprogrammed he tried to deactivate his bondmate. A technique like that could change the course of the war, if someone were to use it.”

“And you think she would?” Mirage asked, then he immediately shook his head. “No, I’ve met her too and you’re right. She probably would try to unravel him. And while I’m all for taking every advantage in this war, at some point we stop being Autobots.”

Smokescreen nodded. “Exactly. So, the question is, given my lapse yesterday, do you trust me in there with Jazz?” he asked, serious and sober.

“The better question is, do you trust yourself in there?” Mirage asked flatly.

Smokescreen was silent for a moment and then he nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine. I won’t slip again. And I’m convinced that if I can get him to talk we can make progress. I just need him to open up to me. Not Prowl.”

“Okay,” Mirage replied. “I’ll stay out here and keep an eye on the situation. Let me know if you need anything. And keep the door open.”

Smokescreen was about to argue the point. After all, the session was supposed to be confidential. But the fact was that this was hardly a normal situation and, if he was being completely honest with himself, Smokescreen didn’t want to carry this burden alone.

After a moment, he nodded and re-entered the room housing his friend and former commander.

\---

“Hey, Jazz,” Smokescreen said gently. “How are you feeling?”

Jazz murmured as he came back online. The only word that Smokescreen was able to understand was ‘ricochet’. 

The saboteur’s optics lit and he smiled up at Smokescreen. “Hey, darlin’,” he said as he reached a dark hand up to Smokescreen’s face.

Smokescreen pulled away slowly, taking Jazz’s hand in his own. “I’m not Prowl, boss,” he said.

Jazz cycled his optics and pulled back slightly as he realized the situation. “Smokey? What’s going on?”

Smokescreen helped Jazz sit up and brace himself against the wall behind the berth.

“Mirage and I brought you to a safehouse, Jazz,” Smokescreen said as he moved to a chair near the bed, just out of arm’s reach. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

Jazz frowned and looked away from Smokescreen. 

“I was in the base gettin’ briefed on my mission,” he said, never making optic contact with the other mech. “And you know regulations, Smokey. I can’t tell you what it was ‘til Pro-,” Jazz cut himself off with a shake of his head. “Until the Brass okays it.”

“I don’t need details, Jazz. I just need to know what we’re dealing with so I can help you out,” Smokescreen replied. “How about we start with Prowl, since you brought him up.”

“I’d rather not talk about him,” Jazz said as he crossed his legs under him and folded his hands in his lap. “In fact, I’d rather not talk about any o’ that right now.”

Smokescreen nodded. “Okay, well then why don’t I give you some words and you can tell me the first thing that comes into your mind. Sounds good?”

Jazz made no response, he simply stared at the far corner of the room.

“How about we start with something simple. Bond,” Smokescreen said.

Jazz waited several minutes before inclining his head slightly toward Smokescreen. “Epi-solon Four Seven Magma Three.”

It took Smokescreen a moment to recognize Jazz’s serial number and shook his head.

“This isn’t an interrogation, Jazz. I just want to talk. To help you. How about instead of word association we just talk. Like we used to over drinks.”

Jazz looked back at the corner and didn’t respond.

“Do you remember being at the smelting pools?” Smokescreen asked. When he saw the faintest of shudders pass through the other mech’s frame, he continued. “You said that they’d never sent me after you before. How about you tell me about that?”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” Jazz muttered.

“Jazz, come on,” Smokescreen chided. “We both know that’s not true. But if you don’t want to talk about that, then how about we talk about Mirage. Do you remember running into him the other day?”

Again, Jazz twitched, but said nothing. Smokescreen bit back a sigh and resisted the urge to rub his optics. This was going to be a long, long session.

“Okay then. Back to word association,” he said. “Optimus Prime.”

There was another twitch and silence.

“Ironhide.”

No response.

“Bumblebee.”

Twitch.

“Headstrong.”

No reaction.

“Killzone.”

Nothing.

“Ultra Magnus.”

Twitch.

Smokescreen noted each movement, and each change to Jazz’s vents and engine. The reactions weren’t a lot to go on, but they were something. And it was a start at least. But save for the twitches and the occationational increase to his engine revolutions, Jazz was silent. Smokescreen may as well have been speaking with a blank wall.

“Prowl,” he finally said, and Jazz was racked with a shudder and a small sob broke through his control.

“Epi-solon Four Seven Magma Three,” Jazz whispered.

“I know your serial number, Jazz. That’s not what I asked,” Smokescreen said quietly. “Tell me what comes to mind when I say the designation ‘Prowl’.”

Jazz shook his head. “He’s deactivated,” he said in a voice so soft that Smokescreen had to increase the acuity of his audials to hear the words.

“Prowl is fine, Jazz. As fine as he can be, given that you’re not well.”

“No. I did my job. I never leave a job undone. I always do as ordered. You know that,” Jazz replied flatly. “I know what happens when I don’t.”

There was something strange about his voice and tone. His normally casual speech pattern was clipped and more formal, sounding far more like something from Kaon rather than Jazz’s home province of Tarn. It was almost as if Smokescreen was speaking with a different mech.

“What happens, Jazz?” Smokescreen asked, fearing the answer and yet knowing that he had to go where neither of them wanted to go.

“Epi-solon Four Seven Magma Three.”

They continued like that until Smokescreen almost lost track of time. Every question was answered with silence or a serial number. Every angle was blocked. It was so very tempted to leave and regroup, but Smokescreen couldn’t bring himself to give up. Jazz wanted to talk. He _needed_ to talk about this. It was just a question of finding the right opening.

“Jazz? I need you to run your debrief with me,” Smokescreen said, asking for the fifth time. Yes it was a different wording and in a different way, but it was still the same question that he had asked so many times before. The only real difference this time was the modulation of his voice. More precise. More clipped. More Prowl-like. It was a dirty trick that would likely get him into the same problem he had faced before, but he was at the end of his rope. There were no other traditional tacks to try.

Jazz shook his head and seemed to close in further on himself. “I did my job perfectly. I did what you ordered me to. You promised me that I could when I was done. You promised and then you stopped me. They’re all gone. I saw all of them fall. What more proof do you need? I did my job just like I always do. Just like I’ve always done. Don’t make me do it again. _Please_ …”

“What was the job, Jazz? What were you supposed to do? Please tell me.”

“I completed every task,” Jazz murmured. “They’re all deactivated, just like you ordered. I did my job just like I was supposed to …”

Smokescreen leaned in and placed a gentle hand on the saboteur’s arm. Jazz instantly flinched and pulled away, but it was an awkward movement, almost as if he was trying to distance himself and get closer at the same time.

“Jazz, you’re safe here. You’re safe with me,” Smokescreen said soothingly. “Prowl, Mirage, Bumblebee, Magnus, and Prime are all recovering just fine. You didn’t do anything terrible, and if you’ll just talk with me, we can get you back to where you belong.”

“I belong with Prowl,” Jazz said, never looking at Smokescreen. His optics were locked on the far wall. “I belong with Prowl. You promised we’d be together after I was done. I did everything you asked of me. I did _all_ of it. Every horrible thing you asked of me, and I did it.” He shuddered at that admission and it was clear that he was talking about something more than his assassination attempts. 

“And we’ll get you back with him, Jazz. I promise you we will.” Smokescreen squeezed his friend’s arm gently. “I just need you to debrief me on what happened. Tell me about your mission, Jazz.”

Jazz leaned into Smokescreen, clearly trying to snuggle into the other mech. “I can’t tell ya that, darlin’. It’s above both our paygrades. I just need you t’ trust me on this. Please trust me, Prowler.”

“I’m Smokescreen, Jazz,” the psychologist said as he disengaged himself carefully. “We have you in a safe house, Mirage and me. You’re safe. We just need to know what happened to you before we can go back to Iacon.”

Jazz looked away from Smokescreen and back at the wall. It was then that the psychologist realized that his former commander wasn’t looking at the wall, he was trying to look _through_ the wall. He was staring in the direction of the smelting pools.

Smokescreen sighed softly. He wasn’t getting anywhere and he wasn’t likely to either. Jazz was practically gone. Whatever this new programming was, it was destroying him from the inside out and it was going to take a lot more than conversation to get him back.

“Okay, we’re done for the day, Jazz. You should get some recharge and we can start up later.”

Jazz nodded absently and lay back on the berth.

“Don’t stay up working too long, Prowler,” he murmured. “I hate rechargin’ without you next t’ me.”

Smokescreen’s spark almost wilted at those words. He brushed his hand over Jazz’s helm before pressing a key to a jack under his helm, forcing the saboteur into a deep recharge. 

“Recharge, well, Jazz,” he murmured. “I’ll get you back to your Prowl as soon as I can. I promise.”

It was a promise he knew he probably wasn’t going to be able to keep. Not the way things were going.

With one last look at his friend Smokescreen left the room, closing the door silently behind him.

“How is he?”

Smokescreen jumped at Mirage’s soft question before he was able to control his reaction. For a moment he was tempted to play the whole thing off, but one look at the Mirage broke his resolve. It was obvious that the spy was barely holding it together himself.

Smokescreen leaned back against the door and scrubbed at his face wearily with his hands.

“It’s not good, Raj … Mirage. Sorry,” he said quietly. “Jazz isn’t opening up at all. Half the time he isn’t lucid at all and the rest he’s completely wracked with guilt over what he’s done. And I don’t think it’s just these recent attacks. There’s something he’s hiding. Maybe even from himself.”

“So what does that mean?” Mirage asked stiffly. It was clear from his body language and tone that he feared the worst and didn’t dare hope for anything else.

Smokescreen shook his head. “There’s nothing I can do with traditional psychological techniques. Or at least there’s nothing that I can do before this all gets really bad.”

“It’s not really bad now?” Mirage drawled, glaring at the window and the sounds of the violence beyond.

“Mirage, I think Jazz is going to try to suicide next time he’s lucid. Yes, the protocols were offline, but if he wants out of here, we both know that neither of us can stop him if he’s on his game. The moment the opportunity presents itself, he’s going to throw himself into the smelting pools,” the psychologist said simply. “Plus how long do you think it’s going to be before someone out there tries to break in here? Or worse, how long before the security troops stumble across us and decide to get a little vengeance?”

Smokescreen’s doors drooped in defeat and mental exhaustion.

“So then that’s it? There’s nothing else that can be done?” Mirage asked.

Smokescreen was silent for a long moment before finally speaking again.

“There is one possible thing. It’s an experimental treatment that might help. Maybe.” This last was added with a helpless shrug.

Mirage waited for Smokescreen to continue.

“And?” he asked with an impatient hand wave when silence descended over the room again.

Smokescreen pursed his lips as he tried to gather his thoughts. “I might be able to jack into his systems physically and create a link. Once I’m in his processor I might be able to fix things from there. Maybe.”

“Might? Maybe?” Mirage asked irritably. “You’re not filling me with a great deal of confidence here.”

Smokescreen huffed in irritation. “Yes! Might and maybe! I can’t guarantee any of this. Psychology isn’t an exact science. It’s not like I can just go in there and reprogram the damage out without fundamentally changing his core personality. This entire thing is a gamble, Mirage!”

Mirage was silent for a long moment, just looking Smokescreen in the optics as if gauging his words.

“Alright,” he said finally. “If this is a gamble then what are the odds?”

Smokescreen’s optics widened in surprise and his mouth opened, forming words that failed to form in his surprise.

“And don’t say that you don’t know, Smokescreen. I know full well what the processors of you Praxians are like and I also know that you always, always know the odds of every situation you go into. No matter how much you hide it behind your buffoonery.”

The Praxian’s optics narrowed in irritation, but he did run the numbers, playing the odds and the possibilities through the logic centres of his battle computer.

“Fine,” he huffed as soon as the final analysis was complete. “There are too many variables to make a proper assessment. Plus, I’m not Prowl but if I had to make a guess I’d say there’s a … maybe a slightly greater than fifty per cent chance that this’ll work. If it was anyone other than Jazz and if this wasn’t the life and death situation that it is, I gotta say, Raj, I wouldn’t take the odds.”

Mirage ignored the mangling of his name, crossing his arms over his chest he started to pace the room slowly. “I’m not sure that I would take those odds anyways. But as you said, this is life and death, and we seem to be out of choices. Would the medical crews be able to take a different route?”

Smokescreen shrugged before sitting heavily in a chair. “I’m not sure what they’d do, but most likely it’d be surgical. I know that Ratchet is the best, but I’m still not sure that I’d want his fiddling about in Jazz’s processor. Admittedly I’m new at all this, but I think that more damage will be done in the long run if Jazz doesn’t deal with this himself.”

Mirage nodded slowly. “All right. Fine. So what’s the process?”

Smokescreen pulled a strange device out of subspace. It was a small jet box with a male cable on one side and several female ports on the other. The extinguished lights along the top caught the light of the room and seemed to flash dimly as Smokescreen moved the box. Instantly Mirage recognized the device as an interfacing toy that was used at some of the more risqué Towers orgies and his lips thinned into a hard, irritated line.

“You are not suggesting that we-”

Smokescreen cut off Mirage’s angry rant with a slight wave of his hand. “The cable splitter is a medical device. Just because it can be used as an interfacing toy doesn’t mean that that that’s its sole or even its intended purpose. Add to that it is possible to plug into someone and have it not be about interfacing. It’s an accepted and useful technique in the field.”

Mirage wasn’t buying the argument and it was obvious from the sneer on his face. “Yes I’ve heard of the so-called psychological techniques and I’ve also heard that more than a few psychologists have been sanctioned for inappropriate relations with their patients.”

“Oh for frag’s sake, Mirage!” Smokescreen stood and closed in on the former noble. “If I was just after a quick tumble do you really think that I would have let you in on this? After all, I have a mech in there who’s half the time convinced that I’m his mate! I could have just stayed in there and had my way with him! But I didn’t, because I’m not the perverted deviant that you seem to think I am!”

Smokescreen dropped the cable splitter on the table and rubbed at his faceplates in irritation. His normally silent doors flared back at a sharp angle from his back and his engine was growling with barely controlled frustration.

“I never said that,” Mirage replied calmly. “I am simply not sure about trusting that thing when even you admit that there’s only a fifty-fifty chance that this will work at all.”

“You may not have said it but you did intimate it. And if we don’t do anything than I can guarantee there’ll be a greater than ninety per cent chance that we’ll lose Jazz. And if he suicides then Prowl will follow.” Smokescreen looked up at Mirage fully serious, his optics pale.

Mirage picked up the device and ran his hand over it. “I’ve heard horror stories about this thing when it goes wrong.”

“When it’s used wrong, when it’s used as a party toy, yeah, it can go horribly wrong. And if you have that much of a problem with this then I’ll go in alone and you can stay out here. Maybe contact the base and get a medical crew here. They probably won’t be able to do anything, but I might be wrong.”

Smokescreen stood and held out his hand for the device.

Mirage looked Smokescreen in the optics for a long time, internally debating the whole thing. Finally he handed over the box. But as Smokescreen took it, Mirage tightened his grip. Smokescreen raised his chevron in a silent question.

“I’ll go in with you,” Mirage finally explained.

“Let me guess,” Smokescreen said, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. “You’re coming to keep an optic on me, right?”

“No. To watch your back. Jazz isn’t going to just let you wander around his processor. It’ll be too much like an enemy attack,” Mirage said, finally handing over the device.

“Oh.” The psychologist’s single note of reply sounded lame in his audios, but he did manage to bring up a smile of thanks.

The two Autobots entered the recharge chamber together and Smokescreen immediately set to work Jazz and the splitter for the procedure.

“You have done this before, right?” Mirage asked, eyeing the cable splitter uncertainly.

“No, but I know the theory,” Smokescreen admitted as he gently worked the catches on Jazz's housing cover, trying to ignore the way the saboteur's unconscious body reacted to the clinical touch.

Mirage crossed his arms over his chest and glared at the psychologist. “Let me rephrase. Has anyone done this before? Successfully I mean?”

The cover to Jazz's cover opened with a soft click and Smokescreen busied himself with hooking up the splitter.

“Smokescreen?” Mirage prompted.

Smokescreen sighed and looked Mirage square in the optics. “As far as I know, no one has ever used this technique for a mech this far gone. But the theory is sound and it should work for Jazz same as it would work for someone coming in with complaints of a minor issue.”

“Back in the Towers there were stories of people getting trapped in the mind of their lover, of whole groups just winking out of existence. Mentally, I mean.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard those stories too, Mirage. But those Towers games were always risky like that, right?” Smokescreen said. “Folks were already revved up and strung out. Not the best mindset to be in when you go in. We just have to keep our heads in the game and be vigilant, Mirage. If we go in questioning, then we’re dooming ourselves to failure.”


	18. Chapter 18

“So what do we do?” Mirage asked, looking distinctly uncomfortable as he watched Smokescreen hook Jazz up to the cable splitter.

“We just hook ourselves up,” Smokescreen replied, distracted. “It’s just like cable sharing with a lover. Just without any other stimulus we should be able to keep ourselves together.” He shrugged. “It’s just interfacing, after all.”

“It’s not just interfacing, it’s … clinical,” Mirage replied. “Or I imagine it’s supposed to be.”

Smokescreen stopped what he was doing and turned to Mirage. “What’s the real problem here? You just pop your compartment, release your cable, and plug in. Easy.”

“Not all of us can just interface with anyone. Not all of us are -” Mirage cut himself off before he could complete the thought with a shake of his head. “What I mean is that it isn’t that easy for everyone.”

It would have been so tempting to respond waspishly and it was clear from his body language that Mirage was expecting another argument. After all, he had nearly called Smokescreen a whore. For the second time in as many orn.

Instead of reacting badly, Smokescreen actually chuckled. “How in the Pit did you manage to survive the Towers? Yeah, sure you have the attitude down pat, but you couldn’t possibly have had feelings for _everyone_ involved in the orgies.”

“High grade helped,” Mirage replied a little sheepishly. “And just because I had to be involved didn’t mean that I liked it … and there were always ways to avoid actually linking into someone. Or being linked into.”

Smokescreen nodded. “That makes sense.” He then stood and moved to the door, anticipating the answer to his next question. “So, do you want some time alone to get ready? I mean, I’d offer to help,” he added with a rakish smile, “but something tells me that the offer wouldn’t be appreciated.”

“No, I don’t need privacy, that’s not the issue,” Mirage replied, never looking at directly at Smokescreen.

“Then just pop it open and-”

“ _Must_ you be so crude?” Mirage demanded.

Smokescreen sighed softly and came over to sit beside Mirage. “Mirage, I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what the issue is. And none of us have time to play guess the hang-up. Now, just out with it, okay? I promise I won’t judge or laugh or anything like that.”

Mirage was quiet for a long time, looking from Jazz to the wall and back again before finally responding. “I’ve never done this before,” he said quietly.

“Well yeah, neither have I. It’s an experimental proceed-” Smokescreen suddenly cut himself off, his optics widening as he grasped the statement. “Wait, you mean you’ve never plugged in- sorry, never shared cables with someone? How is that even possible? You’re a Towers Brat.”

“Yeah, well not all of us fit in with the stereotype,” Mirage replied, clearly irritated and trying to hide his embarrassment.

Smokescreen smiled and took Mirage’s hand, squeezing it gently. “Look, as you said, this is clinical. It’s a psycho-medical procedure. I should never have called it interfacing in the first place, since that implies certain things. Implications that I don’t care to dwell on given that Jazz can’t consent right now.” It was Smokescreen’s turn to look uncomfortable as he pulled away slightly. “Seriously, don’t worry about any of this. I don’t know if you’re worried about first times or if you’re saving yourself for someone or any of that romantic stuff. None of that applies here. _This_ ”, he said, motioning to Jazz and the box, “is just medical. Nothing more than that.”

Mirage nodded. “I’m surprised that you jumped to me being a ‘Towers Brat’ instead of my former relationship with Jazz,” he said, sounding genuinely curious at the reasoning.

“Hrm? Oh I figured that you’d never done anything but energy and tactile stimulation with Jazz. He never shares his processor with anyone … well, probably Prowl, but that’s different, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I was rather surprised when they announced their Bonding. Neither seems to type really. Prowl is so very cool and Jazz …,” Mirage trailed off searching for the right words. “As open and friendly as he is with everyone, it’s all an act, isn’t it? He’s always hiding everything about himself behind that facade of joviality.”

“Yeah,” Smokescreen replied, “yeah, he’s good at that. As for him and Prowl, I dunno anything about that really. It surprised the slag out of me, but I guess the spark wants what the spark wants. It’s good that he found someone who clearly wants the same thing as he does.” He shrugged, but the casual attitude did nothing to hide the wistfulness in his tone.

“So,” Mirage said, “what can we expect when we get in there? Jazz isn’t going to just let us in and wander around in his processor. What can we expect?”

Smokescreen’s lips curled up slightly in a small smile, appreciative of the change of subject. “Everyone’s processor is different. Usually you don’t go in too deep, you just share memories and sensations. Without the outside stimulation, we won’t get any of that. Instead we’ll be in a facsimile of his own mind. It’ll be how he sees himself and how he sees his world.”

“Okay, so what does that mean? I really don’t like the idea of going in blind, especially since Jazz won’t want us in there,” Mirage said.

Smokescreen pursed his lips as he tried to form his thoughts into something that made sense. “In one case the psychiatrist found himself in an empty space, just him and his patient, and as they discussed issues, memories were projected on the walls. In another case, the doctor was in a long hallway with a series of doors, and behind each of the doors was a memory or a series of memories. Both of those cases were pretty literal. I don’t think that Jazz will be. But I can’t tell you what we’ll find. He’s going to do everything he can to keep himself hidden from us. We need to be ready for anything. Thankfully he shouldn’t realize we’re there so long as we don’t draw attention to ourselves. We just need to treat this as a mission into enemy territory.”

Mirage nodded and cleared his vents. He could do this. He was professional enough to separate his personal feelings and concerns from the needs of the mission. He could do this.

Smokescreen’s hand came down on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “You’ll be fine, Mirage. We won’t go in too far today. It’s just a scouting mission.”

With that he moved to the other side of the berth, opened his panel and plugged into the splitter. He gasped slightly as he did, his back arching and his doors spreading out sensually as he was hit with the sensations of the connection. As soon as his systems calmed he turned to Mirage, his optics slightly brighter than usual.

“Once you’re plugged in and comfortable, I’ll open the connection fully,” he said, his voice edged with static. “It’ll just be a flush to your system at first. It’ll probably take a nano to get accustomed to it and get your senses back. Once you’re in we’ll be connected, so I’ll be able to hear anything you project. And vice versa.”

Mirage nodded slowly and took up his place by Jazz’s side on the berth. With a deep, steadying vent, he opened his panel and plugged into the cable splitter. Instantly he was hit by the sensations as his systems prepared for a transfer of data. His back arched, his optics half-shuttered, and his mouth opening in a small O as the slightest of moans escaped him. He sat like that for a moment, upright and bent back, neck exposed, fingers twitching as if to touch and stroke someone. It was a show that demanded a response and had the situation been different, Smokescreen might have taken it as an invitation. Of course, it wasn’t, and no matter how incredible Mirage looked – arched and wanton and just begging to be touched - this was neither the time, nor the place, and even if it had been there was no way that Mirage would consent and that was a line that Smokescreen refused to cross. Still though ...

“ _Primus he is beyond gorgeous when he does that_ ,” Smokescreen thought, inadvertently sending a flash of lust across the connection. Immediately he looked sheepish and reined his thoughts in. “Sorry, that was wildly inappropriate. I’ll, uhm, … sorry.”

Irritation and disgust flowed back across the link before Mirage clamped down hard on his feelings, but the sentiment did get through and Smokescreen didn’t quite manage to hide a flinch in reaction.

“It’s fine,” Mirage said dismissively. “Let’s get on with this.”

Smokescreen seemed about to say something, but he held off. Instead he turned back to the cable splitter and activated it. Instantly the world went completely black. 

\---

Smokescreen groaned, onlining his optics slowly as he came back to himself.

“You here, Mirage?” he asked sluggishly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” came the response. “Where is the pit are we?”

“Jazz’s processor,” Smokescreen replied as he sat up slowly and began looking around and stopped. “Oh-”

They were in a dark and broken city, a destroyed parody of Iacon. The surrounding buildings were twisted and dripping with living rust, looming in on either side of them, trapping them in a narrow alleyway filled with garbage and the rusted out remains of long-deactivated Empties. Above them the steel grey skies were lit with the rage of a massive lightning storm, filling the air with the acrid tang of ozone.

“Oh this is _not_ good,” Smokescreen murmured as he got to his feet. “This has to mean that Jazz is worse off than I thought. We need to find whatever’s causing this and quick.”

Mirage moved to the mouth of the alley, his steps uncertain as if the ground beneath him was uneven and the world was spinning. It was the tread of a mech drunk on high grade or worse.

“Is it just me or is everything slightly off-kilter here?” Mirage asked as he fought to keep his balance without having to touch one of the walls.

“It’s Jazz. He’s off so this place is too,” Smokescreen said as he came to stand beside Mirage, careful to not touch the other mech. “It may be physical damage to his processor, but most likely it’s the reprogramming and whatever viruses the ‘Cons gave him.”

Carefully Mirage stepped out of the alleyway, followed by Smokescreen. They found themselves in a vast open square that looked similar to the marketplace outside of the Iacon garrison. The plating beneath their pedes was worn and dull, patched in areas with grating that revealed a dark pit below. The buildings here were covered with the same dark red rivulets of living rust as the alleyway was, and the walls were splattered with the brownish pink of old, spilled energon. And as with the alleyway, the square was filled with the bodies of the fallen – some were unknown Empties, while others were the familiar faces of Autobots and Decepticons alike.

“Fine. He has to be in here somewhere. You said as much in the safehouse. We find him and bring him out of whatever hole he’s been stashed in,” Mirage said firmly.

“It’s not that easy, Mirage. Yes, he’ll have an avatar in here, but all of this,” Smokescreen motioned to the city and the sky, “is him. He’s everywhere at once and he’s going to view us as a threat the moment he realizes that we’re in here.”

“And if he attacks us?” Mirage asked. “What then? Can we defend ourselves without risking hurting Jazz?”

Smokescreen shook his head. “I don’t know. I’m hoping we won’t have to – that we can just reset our progress each time he comes after us. I’m hoping that if we’re injured in here we’ll just be thrown out.”

“You’re hoping,” Mirage said flatly, hiding his nerves behind flat derision. “And if that’s not the case?”

“If not then we end up like all those mechs who vanished out of existence in the Towers parties. It’s not too late to back out, Mirage. Honestly, it might be best if someone was on the outside. Just in case.”

Mirage was about to answer when chattering laughter filled the air, setting the Autobots on edge. 

“I seeeee youuuuu ….,” came a voice from nowhere and everywhere at once. “I see you my little playthings! Come out and play with us!"

Back to back, Smokescreen and Mirage scanned the square and came back with nothing. They were able to see the buildings, the streets, the storm, but their sensors told them they were in a vast empty space.

“This is disconcerting,” Smokescreen muttered.

“To say the least,” came Mirage’s reply.

The spy was about to run a deeper scan when the white noise was shattered by the high pitched whine of a laser rifle. It was only vorns of practice that gave Mirage the warning he needed to grab Smokescreen and roll out of the way.

“Slag!” Smokescreen spat out as he spread his doors to try and shield Mirage before releasing a smoke bomb. Instantly he grabbed Mirage’s hand and tugged them both back into the nearby alley just as another laser bolt flashed out, striking the dead centre of the smoke cloud.

“I think I can track where that came from. We need to get to Jazz.” Mirage carefully looked out of the alley optics tracking the nearby rooftops.

“Getting to Jazz won’t help any. We need to get to Bombshell’s programming subroutine and shut it down,” Smokescreen replied.

“How can you be sure this is Bombshell and not Soundwave or Shockwave?” Mirage asked in a soft, low voice.

Smokescreen leveled a dark gaze at the spy. “Because I would know that laughter anywhere,” he said, his voice cold and hard.

Mirage suppressed a shiver. Something in Smokescreen’s tone and manner screamed that he was speaking from personal experience.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the delay on this chapter. Unfortunately, I was hot with some pretty terrible writer's block on this piece. Hopefully the next few chapters will take less than a year to be completed!

“Come on,” Smokescreen said. “We need to find Bombshell. He’ll be in here as his programming. Once we find that we can get Jazz back.”

“Right. The shot came from over there,” Mirage replied, motioning in the direction of a building on the far end of the square. “He’d be an idiot if he was over there with Jazz.”

“And Bombshell is many things but he is _not_ an idiot.”

Smokescreen’s doors arched up as he looked out into the square, examining the space on a different level than his scans would allow. Scans were showing that there was nothing there - the deepest portions of his systems were not going to be fooled by this hallucinatory state - but his doors allowed him to work on a more instinctive level. And his instincts told him to move in the opposite direction.

“If I were Jazz,” Smokescreen said slowly, “and I wanted to keep us away from something, I’d play a downed flyer defence. I’d try to draw us as far away from Bombshell as possible.”

Mirage nodded, his optics bright with understanding. “The furthest safe house from this location is at the docks along the Rust Sea. But he’ll know we know that.”

“Exactly,” Smokescreen replied. “So then what? You know him better than I do, mech. Where’s the last place he’d think we’d think to look?”

“The main base in Iacon. He’s set himself up right next to it, confident that we’ll look elsewhere. But the klick he figures out where we’re going he’s going to hunt us down.”

“What if we make it clear that we’re heading to the dock and then circle back?” Smokescreen asked.

“Assuming that this place is like the real world?” Mirage said carefully. “That would work. Assuming that we don’t get lost or separated in here. There’s always the possibility that he’ll see that ploy coming and ...” Mirage shook his head. “We can’t over-think this.”

“Look, Mirage,” Smokescreen said. “You’re the special ops agent. You’ve been working with Jazz for vorn. I trust your instincts on this one. You lead the way, and I’ll have your back, okay?”

Mirage nodded. “Okay. Fine. I’m going to fire on Jazz and you lay down some cover smoke. We’ll head to the docks for a few blocks and then I’ll swing back to the base proper. Once you’ve drawn Jazz far enough away, swing back and meet me inside the main gate.”

Smokescreen pursed his lips but nodded. He didn’t like the idea of separating, but the fact of the matter was that this was his job. Creating a distraction so that others could do their jobs. “Fine.”

With that he sank down into his alt mode and revved his engine softly preparing his electromagnetic smoke for dispersal. In this version of reality an alt-mode wasn’t strictly required for anything, but force of habit was a very strong thing.

“Okay,” he muttered. “Okay, let’s get this done. Just be careful out there, okay, Mirage? Don’t automatically believe everything you see and hear. Even our sensors are going to be lying to us as Bombshell’s program tries to stop us.”

Mirage nodded, fighting back annoyance. . “Yes, I do believe we’ve covered everything, Smokescreen. I do under--”

\---

“--stand?” 

Mirage was alone in what looked like an abandoned bar. The remains of broken furniture lay scattered across the floor, a floor that was stained with spilled energon and scarred by some ancient battle. Darkness clung to the walls and the corners, and there was something in that darkness. It was nothing that Mirage could detect, just a feeling in the back of his processor and deep within his spark. There was something watching him. something dark and dangerous and very, very angry.

“... you left us …,” a voice whispered seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere. “... you should have been there …”

Mirage’s hand tightened spasmodically on his rifle and peered into the darkness. He extended his sensors in an attempt to pick up whoever was out there. They came back with nothing and yet the voices continued.

“... why weren’t you there with us? …. you should have been there …. it all went to the pit and you weren’t there …”

“Who is out there?” Mirage demanded tightly. 

He knew that he shouldn’t be responding to these disembodied voices. Logically he knew that this was some kind of trick that Jazz’s defence systems were playing, or a side effect of Bombshell’s reprogramming. Assuming that this even was Bombshell’s doing. After all, he only had Smokescreen’s word to go on, and Primus knew that mech could not be trusted in any way.

“Don’t change the subject, Mirage,” a silky voice whispered from the darkness. “The Praxian has nothing to do with what we have right here. Right now.”

Mirage turned to face the voice’s direction. The darkness seemed to coalesce around him and seemed to form the vague shapes of Cybertronians. All were slim and lithe, with the graceful curves of the Towers models. As he watched, they seemed to move forward and retreat at the same time, becoming both ethereal and solidifying at the same time. There was something wholly wrong about them and their very existence, but his processor seemed fogged and he couldn’t put his finger on what was wrong.

“You belong here, Mirage,” the voice said, silky smooth and seductive. “You know that you should have been in the Towers when they fell. You chose the Autobots over your own people.”

“I didn’t,” Mirage replied, his voice quiet and unsure. There was definitely something wrong. He was supposed to be doing something. He had been here with someone … if he could only get this fog to dissipate he could think.

“You did. You know you did,” the voice accused. “But none of that matters now. Your back with us. You’re where you belong, aren’t you, Mirage?”

Where there had once been shadows there were now mechs. Hundreds of his friends and family were milling about. Music played and people were dancing - swaying and pressing close in an intimate embrace. He looked down and realized he had half a cube of high grade in his hand that he didn’t remember taking.

“You almost done with that, lover?”

Mirage turned and smiled at Stormflyer. She was a lithely built proto-flyer with beautiful green trim over a silver finish. Her optics were a stormy grey-blue, staring out at him from a narrow, pale green face. Something in the back of his processor told him that she shouldn’t be here but just as he grasped the thought it flit away as if never there.

He slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. This felt so completely right. So perfect. As soon as she was snuggled against his side he downed the rest of the high grade.

“I’m done with this one. Shall we fetch another cube or would you prefer hitting the floor?” he asked.

“I’d prefer to entertain ourselves elsewhere,” she purred seductively, bringing one grey hand up his back and dipping into his cockpit.

“Hrmmm … I think I might be able to be convinced, but we really should stay for a little while longer,” he said. “For show, after all.”

“Yeah, I suppose that we do need to keep up appearances, don’t we,” she said, her mouth forming a small moue. “But as soon as the Festival speech is given we can slip out the side doors.”

Mirage turned to face Stormflyer and tilted her chin up, meeting her lips with his own in a sweet but not in any way chaste kiss. She melted into him and together they moved further into the crowd on the dance floor.

\---

“Smokescreen? Cybertron to Smokescreen,” a voice said from behind the Praxian.

Smokescreen turned to face the speaker, feeling as if he was moving through a thick liquid.

The bar was crowded tonight; so much so that they were probably breaking several by-laws with every new person that entered. But it was Festival time and the Council Police weren’t likely to enforcing anything in this quarter of Iacon - especially not when the bar and club owners had all paid their “suggested donations” to the Enforcement Bureau.

Mechs and femmes moved throughout the space, dancing, drinking, gambling, and interfacing in the dark and hidden corners of the building. The night was wild, unhinged, and stank of desperation and lust. Business as usual these days.

“Sorry, Topside,” Smokescreen said with a shake of his head and a rueful smile. “I was lost in the crowd.”

“Yeah? Well study them later, Mister Shrink,” Topside said with a chuckle as he handed a tray of engex cubes and goodies to Smokescreen. “You’re paid to deliver drinks and party with the guests, not work on your degree.”

“No reason I can’t do both,” Smokescreen shot back, his smile turning into a brilliant grin. “After all, the slag going on in here is perfect for my thesis.”

“Don’t let Jump hear you talk like that,” Topside replied, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Damned functionalist only lets you work here because of the Praxian-chasers.”

“Hey I can spin an explanation for why I need to be a psychologist rather than a tactician or an enforcer. And if not, I can just waggle my doors at him and find other ways to convince him,” Smokescreen said with a teasing little wag of his doors.

“Yeah, keep telling yourself that one. But do it while you deliver those refreshments.” Topside pointed out to the dance floor. His tone was firm, but there was a glint of humour in his red optics.

Smokescreen turned away with his tray and moved through the crowd. Smile, flirt, touch, preen and complement. It was all steps in the game he was playing with the paying customers. Anything to help them deal with their fears and paranoias. Down this deep in the city, they were all living in a horror story. Claims were that the Noble classes were still getting real energon and enegex, and not the oiled-down slag that was being served down here. But when you got a mech drunk enough and offered them enough distractions they’d find it easier to ignore everything going on around them.

He flicked his doors and smiled at a regular patron - a patron who was a particularly good tipper and who, surprisingly, only wanted to talk in their private sessions - when something seemed to form in the edge of his optic range. Smokescreen shifted slightly to focus on whatever had caught his attention. There was something wrong over on the other side of the bar, but every time he tried to focus on it, it would slip away from his ability to process it.

Shaking his head, he turned back to the room proper. He was over-exerting himself, what with working here and trying to obtain his psychiatry license from The Institute. He was getting pixels in his visual processor, nothing more than that. And exhaustion would also explain this nagging feeling that he was forgetting something important.

“Don’t worry about it,” he heard a voice whisper behind him, and a hand ghosted over his doors. “All you need is right here.”

Smokescreen spun, sending the few remaining cubes and goodies scattering to the floor.

“Woah there, mech!” Vanguard said smoothly. He was a regular of Smokescreen’s. A regular who paid extraordinarily well. And it helped that he wasn’t hard on the optics in any way. Tall and thickly built, he looked like he should have been a miner or a gladiator had the Functionalists had their way. Instead he was a poet working for the Council writing propaganda to keep the machine running.

“Vanguard! What brings you to this end of town?” Smokescreen asked as soon as he had gathered himself and his tray back together.

The large tan and burnt orange mech shrugged slightly, the treads in his arms spinning lazily as he did. “I have a while yet before I have to make an appearance for the Council’s pleasure. I figured I was owed some of my own first.”

Vanguard reached out a large black hand and stroked the top edge of Smokescreen’s right door. 

“So, you booked for the night yet? Or does Jump have you working the floor?” he asked in a low, seductive purr that sent a shiver up Smokescreen’s spinal strut.

“It’s a long night. No reason I can’t do both,” Smokescreen replied with a small smile. “Once you’ve signed off with Jump, of course.”

As he smiled up at Vanguard, the room behind the large mech seemed to shimmer and shift, and he was hit again with the feeling of moving through thick liquid. There was a nagging at the back of his processor, a feeling like he was forgetting something important. Like he was being purposefully distracted, but the harder he tried to grasp at whatever it was, the quicker it slipped away.

“You okay, Smokey?” Vanguard asked, concerned. “Look, if you’re too busy for some one-on-one time, I can come back later.

Smokescreen shook his head and forced his attention back to the other mech.

“No, sorry, no. I’m good,” he said a little sheepishly. “I’m probably just a little overclocked between working here and my Academy assignments. But I am definitely not to tired or overworked to spend time with you, Van.”

He handed off his tray to another server, took Vanguard’s hand and led him toward the elevator and the berth rooms.

\---

The party spun around Mirage as he moved about the dance floor with Stormflyer. He had had far too much high grade and was surrounded by far too many brats who had never truly suffered a day in their lives. This was mindless, tedious, and he was hating every moment of it. All the glitz and glitter was doing nothing but hiding the rot hiding under the surface of everything. Even the mechs around him, drunk and happy, were hiding a panicked hysteria. They only had so long before their world collapsed around them all. They could only hide from reality for so long.

Smokescreen was pressed against the berth, Vanguard’s weight crushing him into the foam covering. It was both intoxicating and smothering. He desperately wanted to tell Vanguard to leave, but as sweet and poetic as he was, Vanguard was not a mech to enrage. And he became enraged easily. No was not a word in his vocabulary. Smokescreen wanted out, but he couldn’t afford his education without the added work, and especially not without Vanguard’s generous tips.

The past was being played back for both mechs as they leaned against the wall of the alley. They had been found by Jazz’s security systems and by Bombshell’s programming. They were trapped, pinned like a pair of insecticons pinned to a scientist’s wall.


End file.
